ipiiii 


31822  01138  7552 


III 


AND    OTHEI^ 


HENipr ;  SEfON  ME^pMJ 


LIBRARY 

UNiver:;ity  of 

california 

.       SAN  DIEGO        . 


PR  5299  S5  T6 

ijMjVERSPV   01    CA,  IfOHNiA     SAN   ^'^ffi 


3  1822  01138  7552 


.Ssr 


\ 


TOMASO'S    FORTUNE 
AND    OTHER    STORIES 


\ 


TOMASO'S   FORTUNE 

AND    OTHER    STORIES 


\ 


BY 

HENRY   SETON    MERRIMAN  <^P^.€Ava  q 

AU'lHOR   OF 

•'BARLASCH  OF  THE  GUARD,"  "THE  SOWERS,"   "THE  ISI.E  OF  UNREST," 

"THE    VELVET    GI.OVE,"    "THE    VULTURES,"    ETC. ,  ETC. 


H^^L  <;^^'^^-i^  '^-'^ 


'The  common  problem,  yours,  mine,  everyone  s, 
Is — not  to  fancy  what  were  fair  in  life 
Provided  it  could  be, — but,  finding  first 
What  may  be,  then  find  how  to  make  it  fair.   .  . 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER^S    SONS 
NEW   YORK 1904 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
CHAELES  SCRIBNEK'S  SONS 


Published,  March,  1904 


TROW  DIRECTORY 

PHINTINO  AND  BOOKBINDINO  COMPANY 

NEW  TORK 


CONTEXTS 

PAGE 

I.    ToMAso's  Fortune 3 

II.    Sister 27 

III.  A  Small  World 45 

IV.  In  a  Crooked  Way 83 

V.    The  Tale  of  a  Scorpion 99 

VI.    On  the  Rocks 115 

VII.    "Golossa-a-l" 139 

VIII.    The  Mule 151 

IX.    In  Love  and  War 177 

X.    "Stranded" 191 

XI.   Putting  Things  Right 219 

XII.    For  Juanita's  Sake 227 

XIII.  At  the  Front 237 

XIV.  The  End  of  the  "Mooroo" 247 

XV.    In  a  Caravan 259 

XVI.  In  the  Track  of  the  Wandering  Jew     .  271 

XVII.    Through  the  Gate  of  Tears 307 

XVIII.    A  Pariah 321 

XIX.    The  Prodigal's  Return 331 


•^ 


TOMASOS   FORTUNE 


\ 


TOMASO'S    FORTUNE 

"You  talk  of  poor  men,  Sefiora — then  you  talk  of 
me.  See,  I  have  nothing  but  the  wits  that  are  under 
my  hat." 

And  Felipe  Fortis  spread  himself  out  on  the  trel- 
lis-bordered bench  of  the  little  Venta  that  stands  at 
the  junction  of  the  Valdemosa  Road  and  the  new- 
road  from  Miramar  to  Palma  in  the  island  of 
Majorca. 

Felii^e  was,  of  course,  known  to  be  a  young  man  of 
present  position  and  future  prosj)ects,  or  he  would 
not  have  said  such  a  thing.  It  was  supposed,  indeed, 
by  some,  to  be  a  great  condescension  that  he  should 
stop  at  the  little  Venta  of  the  Break  of  Day  and  take 
his  half  of  wine  on  market-days.  And,  of  course, 
there  were  women  who  eagerly  sought  the  woman  in 
it,  and  said  that  Fclii^e  drank  the  widow  Navarro's 
sour  wine  to  the  bright  eyes  of  the  widow's  daughter. 

"No  such  luck  for  her,"  said  Rosa's  cousins  and 
aunts,  who  were  dotted  all  up  the  slopes  of  the  valley 
on  either  side  in  their  little  stone  cottages,  right  up 
from  the  river  to  the  Val  d'Erraha — that  sunny  val- 

3 


TOMASO'S   FOKTUNE 

ley  of  repose  which  lies  far  above  the  capital  of  Ma- 
jorca, far  above  the  hum  of  life  and  sound  of  the 
restless  sea. 

Felipe,  who  was  a  good-looking  young  fellow, 
threw  his  hat  down  on  the  bench  beside  him.  He 
had  fair  hair  and  a  white  skin — both,  he  understood, 
much  admired  by  the  dark-eyed  daughters  of  the 
Baleares.  He  shook  his  finger  with  a  playful  con- 
descension at  the  widow  Navarro,  with  whom  he  was 
always  kind  enough  to  exchange  a  few  light  pleas- 
antries. And  she,  woman-like,  suited  her  fire  to  the 
calibre  of  the  foe,  for  she  was  an  innkeeper. 

"That  is  all — the  wits  that  are  under  my  hat,"  he 
repeated. 

And  Rosa,  who  was  standing  in  the  deep  shadow 
of  the  doorway,  muttered  to  herself — 

"Then  you  are  indeed  a  poor  man." 

Felipe  glanced  towards  her,  and  wondered  whether 
the  sun  was  shining  satisfactorily  through  the  trellis 
on  his  fair  hair. 

Rosa  looked  at  him  with  inscrutable  eyes — deep  as 
velvet,  grave  and  meditative.  She  was  slight  and 
girlish,  with  dull  blue-black  hair  and  a  face  that 
might  have  been  faithfully  cut  on  a  cameo.  It  was 
the  color  of  a  sun-burnt  peach,  and  usually  wore  that 
air  of  gentle  pride  which  the  Moors  seem  to  have 
left  behind  them  in  those  lands  through  which  they 
passed,   to  the   people  upon  whom  they   have   im- 

4 


TOMASO'S   FORTUNE 

pressed  an  indelible  mark.  Bnt  when  she  smiled, 
which  was  not  often,  her  lips  tilted  suddenly  at  the 
corners  in  a  way  to  make  an  old  man  young  and  a 
young  man  mad. 

Tomaso  of  the  Mill,  who  sat  on  the  low  wall  across 
the  road  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  fig-tree,  was  watch- 
ing with  steady  eyes.  Tomaso  was  always  watching 
Rosa.  He  had  watched  for  years.  She  had  grown 
up  under  that  steady  eye.  And  now,  staring  into  the 
deep  shadow  of  the  cottage  interior,  he  thought  that 
he  saw  Rosa  smile  upon  Felipe.  And  Felipe,  of 
course,  concluded  that  she  was  smiling  at  him.  They 
all  did  that.  And  only  Rosa  knew  the  words  she  had 
whispered  respecting  the  gallant  Felipe. 

Tomaso  of  the  Mill  was  a  poor  man  if  you  like, 
and  usually  considered  a  dull  one  to  boot.  He  only 
had  the  mill  half-way  up  the  hill  to  the  Val  d'Erraha 
— a  mill  to  which  no  grist  came  now  that  there  was 
steam  communication  between  Palma  and  Barce- 
lona, and  it  paid  better  to  ship  the  produce  of  the 
island  to  the  mainland,  buying  in  return  the  adulter- 
ated produce  of  the  Barcelona  mills.  Tomaso's 
father  had  been  a  prosperous  man  almost  to  the  day 
of  his  death,  but  times  had  moved  on,  leaving  Tomaso 
and  his  mill  behind.  And  there  is  no  man  who 
watches  the  times  move  past  him  with  a  prouder 
silence  than  a  Spaniard.  The  mill  hardly  brought  in 
ten  pesetas  a  month  now,  and  that  was  from  friends 

5 


TOMASO'S   FOETUNE 

— poor  men  like  himself  who  were  yet  gentlemen, 
and  found  some  carefully  worded  reason  why  they 
preferred  home-milled  floiir.  Tomaso,  moreover,  was 
deadly  simple :  there  is  nothing  more  fatal  than  sim- 
plicity in  these  days.  It  never  occurred  to  him  to 
sell  his  mill,  or  let  it  fall  in  ruins  and  go  elsewhere 
for  work.  His  world  had  always  been  bounded  on 
the  south  by  the  Val  d'Erraha,  on  the  north  by  the 
Valdemosa  Road,  on  the  west  by  the  sea,  and  on  the 
east  by  Rosa.  He  had  never  suffered  from  absolute 
hunger,  and  nothing  but  absolute  hunger  will  make 
a  Spaniard  leave  his  home.  So  Tomaso  of  the  Mill 
remained  at  the  mill,  and,  like  his  forefathers,  only 
repaired  the  sluices  and  conduit  when  the  water- 
supply  was  no  longer  heavy  enough  to  drive  the 
creaking  wheel. 

Since  the  death  of  his  mother  he  had  lived  alone, 
cooking  his  own  food,  washing  his  own  clothes,  and 
no  man  in  the  valley  wore  a  whiter  shirt.  As  to  the 
food,  perhaps  there  was  not  too  much  of  it,  or  it  may 
have  been  badlv  cooked ;  for  Tomaso  had  a  lean  and 
hungry  look,  and  his  tanned  cheek  had  diagonal  lines 
drawn  from  the  cheek-bone  to  the  corner  of  the  clean- 
shaven mouth.  The  lips  were  firm,  the  chin  was 
long.  It  was  a  solemn  face  that  looked  out  from  be- 
neath the  shadow  of  the  great  fig-tree.  And — there 
was  no  mistaking  it — it  was  the  face  of  that  which 
the  world  calls  a  gentleman. 

6 


TOMASO'S    FORTUNE 

Felipe  turned  towards  liini  in  his  good-natured, 
grand  way,  and  invited  him  by  a  jerk  of  the  head  to 
come  and  partake  of  his  half -bottle  of  Majorcan  wine. 
There  was  a  great  gulf  between  these  two  men,  for 
Tomaso  wore  no  jacket  and  Felipe  was  never  seen 
without  one.  Tomaso  therefore  accepted  the  invita- 
tion with  a  grave  courtesy.  Felipe  knew  his  .man- 
ners also.  He  poured  a  few  drops  into  his  own  glass, 
for  fear  the  cork  should  have  left  a  grain  of  dust,  and 
then  filled  his  guest's  little  thick  tumbler  to  the  brim. 
They  touched  glasses  gravely  and  drank,  Felipe  mak- 
ing a  swinging  gesture  towards  Rosa  in  the  dark 
doorway  before  raising  the  glass  to  his  lips. 

"And  affairs  at  the  mill  ?"  inquired  Felipe,  with 
a  movement  of  the  hand  demanding  pardon  if  the 
subject  should  be  painful. 

"The  wheel  is  still,"  replied  Tomaso,  with  that 
grand  air  of  indifference  with  which  Spain  must 
eventually  go  to  the  wall.  He  slowly  unrolled  and 
re-rolled  a  cheap  cigarette,  and  sat  down  on  the  bench 
opposite  to  Felipe. 

Felipe  looked  at  him  with  that  bright  and  good- 
natured  smile  which  was  known  to  be  so  deadly.  He 
spread  out  his  arms  in  a  gesture  of  lofty  indifference, 

"What  will  you  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  laugh.  "It 
will  come — ^your  fortune." 

And  Tomaso  smiled  gi-avely.  He  was  quite  con- 
vinced  also,   in   his   simple  way,   that   his   fortune 

7 


TOMASO'S    FORTUNE 

would  come;  for  it  had  been  predicted  by  a  gipsy 
from  Granada  at  the  Trinity  Fair  on  the  little 
crowded  market-place  at  Palma.  The  prediction  had 
caught  the  popular  fancy.  Tomaso's  poverty,  it 
must  be  remembered,  was  a  proverb  all  over  the 
island.  "As  poor  as  Tomaso  of  the  Mill,"  the  peo- 
ple said;  it  being  understood  that  a  church  mouse 
failed  to  suggest  such  destitution.  Moreover,  the 
gipsy  foretold  that  Tomaso  should  make  his  own 
fortune  with  his  own  two  hands,  which  added  to  the 
joke,  for  no  one  in  Majorca  is  guilty  of  such  manual 
energy  as  will  lead  to  more  than  a  sufficiency. 

"Now,  I  say,"  continued  Felipe,  turning  to  the 
widow  with  that  unconscious  way  of  discussing  some 
one  who  happens  to  be  present,  which  is  only  under- 
stood in  Southern  worlds.  "Now,  I  say  that  when  it 
comes,  it  will  have  something  to  do  with  horses.  See 
how  he  sits  in  the  saddle !" 

And  Felipe  sketched  perfection  with  a  little 
gesture  of  his  brown  hand,  which  was  generous  of 
Felipe;  for  Tomaso  was  (by  one  of  those  strange 
chances  which  lead  the  Spaniards  to  say  that  God 
gives  nuts  to  those  who  have  no  teeth)  a  born  horse- 
man, and  sat  in  the  saddle  like  a  god — one  straight 
line  from  heel  to  shoulder. 

Tomaso  had  risen  from  the  bench  and  walked 
slowly  across  the  road  to  his  former  seat  on  the  low 
wall.     He  was  a  shy  and  rather  modest  man,  and 

8 


TOMASO'S    FORTUNE 

felt,  perhaps,  that  tliere  was  a  suggestion  of  con- 
descension in  Felipe's  attitude.  If  Felipe  had  come 
liore  to  pay  his  addresses  to  Rosa,  he,  Tomaso,  was 
not  the  man  to  put  difficulties  in  the  way.  For  he 
was  one  of  those  rare  men  who,  in  loving,  place  them- 
selves in  the  hackground.  He  loved  Rosa,  in  a  word, 
hetter  than  he  loved  himself.  And  in  the  solitude  of 
his  life  at  the  mill,  he  had  worked  out  a  grim  prob- 
lem in  his  own  mind.  He  had  weighed  himself  care- 
fully in  the  balance,  nothing  extenuating.  He  had 
taken  as  precise  a  measure  of  Felipe  Fortis  with  his 
present  position  and  his  future  prospects.  And,  of 
course,  the  only  solution  was  that  Rosa  would  do 
well  to  marry  Felipe.  So  Tomaso  withdrew  to  the 
outer  side  of  the  road  and  the  shade  of  the  fig-tree, 
while  Felipe  talked  gaily  with  Rosa's  mother,  and 
Rosa  looked  on  from  the  doorway  with  deep,  dark 
eyes  that  said  nothing  at  all.  For  Felipe  was  wooing 
the  daughter  through  the  mother,  as  men  have  often 
done  before  him;  and  the  widow  smiled  on  Felipe's 
suit.  The  whole  business,  it  appeared,  was  to  be  con- 
ducted in  a  sane  and  gentlemanly  way,  over  a  half 
of  the  widow's  wine,  with  clinking  glasses  and  a  grave 
politeness.  And,  of  course,  Felipe  had  it  all  his  own 
way.  The  question  of  rivalry  did  not  so  much  as 
suggest  itself  to  him,  so  he  could  the  more  easily  be 
kind  to  the  quiet  man  with  the  steady  eyes  who  with- 
drew with  such  tact  when  he  had  finished  his  wine. 

9 


TOMASO'S    FORTUNE 

Of  course,  there  was  Tomaso's  fortune  to  take 
into  consideration.  ISTo  one  seemed  to  think  of  doubt- 
ing that  the  prediction  must  eventually  come  true, 
but  it  was  hardly  likely  to  be  verified  in  time  to  con- 
vert Tomaso  into  a  serious  rival  to  Felipe  Fortis. 
There  were  assuredly  no  fortunes  to  be  made  out  of 
the  half-ruined  mill.  The  trade  had  left  that  for 
ever.  There  was  no  money  in  the  whole  valley,  and 
Tomaso  did  not  seem  disposed  to  go  and  seek  it  else- 
where. He  passed  his  time  between  the  mill  and  the 
low  wall  opposite  the  Venta  of  the  Break  of  Day,  of 
which  the  stones  beneath  the  fig-tree  were  polished 
with  his  constant  use  of  them.  He  usually  came 
down  from  the  mill,  which  is  a  mile  above  the  Venta, 
as  any  one  may  prove  who  seeks  the  Valley  of  Re- 
pose to-day,  by  the  new  road  recently  cut  on  the  hill- 
side by  a  spasmodically  active  Town  Council — the 
road  from  Miramar  to  Palma. 

It  had  been  at  one  time  supposed  that  Tomaso's 
fortune  would  come  to  him  through  this  new  road, 
for  the  construction  of  which  a  portion  of  the  land 
attached  to  the  mill  must  be  purchased.  But  it  was 
a  very  small  jDortion,  and  the  purchase-money  a 
ridiculous  little  sum,  which  was  immediately  swal- 
lowed up  in  repairs  to  the  creaking  wheel.  The  road- 
makers,  however,  turned  aside  the  stream  below  the 
mill,  and  conducted  it  to  a  chasm  in  the  rock,  where 
it  fell  a  great  height  to  a  tunnel  beneath  the  road. 

10 


TOMASO'S    FORTUNE 

And  half  the  valley  said  they  could  not  sleep  for  the 
sound  of  it,  and  the  other  half  said  they  liked  it. 
And  Kosa,  whose  bed-room  window  was  nearer  to  it 
than  any  other  in  the  valley,  said  nothing  at  all. 

Sitting  beneath  the  fig-tree,  Tomaso  looked  up 
suddenly  towards  the  mill.  He  was  so  much  accus- 
tomed to  the  roar  of  his  own  mill-stream,  that  his  ears 
never  heeded  it,  and  heard  through  it  softer  and  more 
distant  sounds.  He  heard  something  now — the  regu- 
lar beat  of  trotting  horses  on  the  road  far  above  his 
home.  He  looked  up  towards  the  heights,  though,  of 
course,  he  could  see  nothing  through  the  pines,  which 
are  thickly  planted  here  and  almost  as  large  as  the 
pines  of  Vizzavona,  in  the  island  of  Corsica.  He 
listened  to  the  sound  with  that  quiet  interest  which 
comes  to  those  who  live  in  constant  sunshine,  and  is 
in  itself  nearly  akin  to  indifference. 

"^Vhat  is  it  ?"  asked  the  widow,  noting  his  atti- 
tude. 

"It  is  a  carriage  on  the  new  road — some  traveller 
from  Miramar." 

Travellers  from  Miramar  were  few  and  far  be- 
tween. None  had  as  yet  made  use  of  the  new  road. 
This  was,  therefore,  a  matter  of  considerable  inter- 
est to  the  four  persons  idling  away  the  afternoon  at 
the  Venta  of  the  Break  of  Day. 

"The  horses  will  as  likely  as  not  take  fright  at  the 
new  waterfall  made  by  these  mules  of  road-makers," 

11 


TOMASO'S   FORTUNE 

said  Tomaso,  rising  slowly  and  throwing  away  the 
end  of  his  cigarette. 

He  took  his  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  look- 
ing up-hill  with  a  gleam  of  interest  in  his  eyes.  He 
knew  horses  so  well  that  his  opinion  arrested  the 
attention  of  his  hearers.  Tomaso  had  always  said 
that  the  diversion  of  his  mill-stream  would  be  dan- 
gerous to  the  traffic  on  the  new  road.  But  it  was 
nobody's  business  to  consult  Tomaso. 

He  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  contem- 
platively biting  his  lower  lip — a  lean,  lithe  man,  who 
had  lived  a  clean  and  simple  life — and  never  dreamt 
that  this  might  be  his  fortune  trotting  down  the  new 
Miramar  road  towards  him. 

"Ah !"  he  exclaimed,  curtly. 

The  steady  pace  was  suddenly  broken,  and  at  the 
same  moment  the  hollow  roar  of  the  wheels  told  that 
the  carriage  was  passing  over  the  little  tunnel  through 
which  the  stream  escaped  to  the  valley  below.  Then 
came  the  clatter  of  frightened  horses  and  the  broken 
cry  of  one  behind  them.  Felipe  leapt  to  his  feet  and 
stood  irresolute.  The  widow  gave  a  little  cry  of  fear, 
and  Rosa  came  out  into  the  sunlight.  There  the  three 
stood,  rigid,  watching  Tomaso  contemplatively  bit- 
ing his  lip  in  the  middle  of  the  sunlit  road. 

In  a  moment  the  suspense  was  over — the  worst 
was  realized.  A  carriage  swung  round  the  corner  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  higher  up  the  road,  with  two  horses 

12 


TOMASO'S    FORTUNE 

stretched  at  a  frantic  gallop,  and  the  driver  had  no 
reins  in  his  hand ;  for  his  reins  had  broken,  and  the 
loose  ends  fluttered  on  either  side.  He  was  stooping 
forward,  with  his  right  hand  at  the  screw-brake  be- 
tween his  legs,  and  in  his  left  hand  he  swung  his 
heavy  whip.  He  was  a  brave  man,  at  all  events,  for 
he  kept  his  nerve  and  tried  to  guide  the  horses  with 
his  whip.  There  was  just  a  bare  chance  that  he  might 
reach  the  Venta,  but  below  it — not  a  hundred  yards 
below  it — the  road  turned  sharply  to  the  right,  and 
everything  failing  to  take  that  sharp  turn  would  leap 
into  space  and  the  rocky  bed  of  the  river  five  hun- 
dred feet  below. 

The  man  gave  a  shout  as  he  came  round  the  corner, 
and  to  his  credit  it  was  always  remembered  that  his 
gesture  waved  Tomaso  aside.  But  Tomaso  stood  in 
the  middle  of  the  road,  and  his  steady  eyes  suddenly 
blazed  with  a  fierce  excitement.  His  lips  were  apart. 
He  was  breathless,  and  Rosa  found  herself  with  her 
two  hands  at  her  throat,  watching  him. 

The  carriage  seemed  to  bear  right  down  upon  him, 
but  he  must  have  stepped  aside,  for  it  passed  on  and 
left  the  road  clear.  Tomaso  was  somewhat  in  the 
dust,  in  the  confusion  of  tossing  heads  and  flying 
reins.  Then  his  white  shirt  appeared  against  the 
black  of  the  horses'  manes. 

"Name  of  God !"  cried  Felipe ;  "he  is  on  top !" 

And  Felipe  Fortis  forgot  his  fine  clothes  and  su- 

13 


\ 


TOMASO'S    FOKTUNE 

perior  manners.  He  was  out  on  the  road  in  an 
instant,  running  as  he  never  ran  before,  and  shout- 
ing a  hundred  Catalonian  oaths,  which  cannot  be 
transcribed  here,  even  in  Catalonian. 

It  was  difficult  to  see  what  happened  during  these 
moments,  which  were  just  those  instants  of  time  in 
which  one  man  does  well  and  another  badly.  But 
Rosa  and  her  mother  saw  at  length  that  Tomaso  was 
apparently  half  standing  on  the  pole  between  the  two 
horses.  He  was  swinging  and  jerking  from  side  to 
side,  but  all  the  while  he  was  gathering  the  scattered 
reins  in  his  hands.  Then  suddenly  he  threw  himself 
back,  and  the  horses'  heads  went  up  as  if  they  were 
being  strangled.  They  jerked  and  tugged  in  vain. 
Tomaso's  arms  were  like  steel.  Already  the  pace 
was  slackening — the  gallop  was  broken.  And  a 
minute  later  the  carriage  was  at  a  standstill  in  the 
ditch. 

Already  the  driver  was  on  the  ground  explaining 
excitedly  to  Tomaso  how  it  had  happened,  and 
Tomaso  was  smiling  gravely  as  he  wiped  some  blood 
from  his  hand.  It  was  Felipe  who,  arriving  at  this 
moment,  thought  of  opening  the  carriage-door.  There 
was  a  pause  while  Felipe  looked  into  the  carriage, 
and  Rosa  and  her  mother  ran  towards  him.  Rosa 
helped  Felipe  to  assist  an  old  man  to  alight.  He  was 
a  very  fat  man,  with  gray  and  flaccid  cheeks,  with 
shiny  black  hair  and  a  good  deal  of  gold  chain  and 

14 


TOMASO'S    FORTUNE 

ring  about  him.  He  seemed  only  half-conscious  of 
the  assistance  proffered  to  him,  and  walked  slowly 
across  the  road  to  the  shade  of  the  trees.  Here  he  sat 
down  on  the  low  wall,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
his  two  hands  to  his  head,  and  looked  thoughtfully  at 
the  ground  between  his  feet.  It  was  precisely  the 
attitude  of  one  who  has  had  a  purler  at  football.  And 
the  others  looked  on  in  the  waiting  silence  which  usu- 
ally characterizes  such  moments. 

'The  gentleman  is  not  hurt?"  suggested  Felipe, 
who  was  always  affable  and  ready  with  his  tongue. 

But  the  gentleman  was  not  prepared  to  confirm  this 
oj)timistic  view  of  the  case.  He  simply  sat  staring 
at  the  ground  between  his  feet.  At  length  he  lifted 
his  head  and  looked  Felipe  slowly  up  and  down. 

"Who  stopped  the  horses  ?"  he  asked.  "A  man  in 
a  ^vhite  shirt." 

"It  was  Tomaso  of  the  Mill,"  answered  the  widow, 
who  would  have  spoken  sooner  if  she  had  had  her 
breath.  "He  washes  his  own,"  she  added,  anxious  to 
say  a  good  word  for  a  neighbor. 

Tomaso  should,  of  course,  have  come  forward  and 
bowed.  But  Tomaso's  manners  were  not  of  a  showy 
description.  He  was  helping  the  driver  to  repair 
the  reins,  and  paused  at  this  moment  to  remove 
the  perspiration  from  his  forehead  with  two  fingers, 
which  he  subseg[uently  wiped  on  the  seam  of  his 
trousers. 

16 


TOMASO'S    EOKTUNE 

"He !"  cried  the  fat  man  sitting  on  the  wall. 

One  could  see  that  he  was  a  business  man ;  for  he 
had  the  curt  manner  of  the  counting-house. 

"He,  Tomaso!"  added  the  widow  Navarro,  in  a 
shrill  voice. 

And  Tomaso  came  slowly  forward. 

"Your  name  ?"  said  the  man  of  business. 

"Tomaso." 

"Tomaso  what  ?" 

"Tomaso  of  the  Mill."  And  his  face  fell  a  little 
when  the  fat  man  produced  a  pocket-book  and  wrote 
the  name  down  with  a  shaking  hand.  The  action 
rather  savored  of  the  police  and  the  law,  and  Tomaso 
did  not  like  it. 

The  stout  man  leant  forward  with  his  chin  in  the 
palm  of  his  hand  and  reflected  for  some  moments. 
He  was  singularly  reflective,  and  seemed  to  be  making 
a  mental  calculation. 

"See  here,"  he  said  at  length,  looking  at  Tomaso 
with  quick  business-like  eyes.  He  was  beginning  to 
recover  his  color  now.  "See  here,  I  am  not  going  to 
give  you  money — between  gentlemen,  eh !  such  things 
are  not  done.  You  have  saved  my  life.  Good !  You 
are  a  brave  man,  and  you  risked  your  neck  for  a 
perfect  stranger !  I  happen  to  be  a  rich  man,  and  my 
life  is  of  some  value.  I  came  from  Barcelona  to  Ma- 
jorca on  business — business  with  a  good  profit.  If  I 
had  gone  over  there" — he  paused,  and  jerked  his 

16 


TOMASO'S    FORTUNE 

thumb  towards  the  blue  and  hazy  space  that  lay  below 
them — "the  transaction  would  have  fallen  through. 
You  have  enabled  me,  by  your  prompt  action,  to  re- 
turn to  Palma  this  evening  and  sign  the  papers  con- 
nected with  this  affair.  Good !  You  are  therefore 
entitled  to  a  commission  on  the  profit  that  I  shall 
make.  I  have  reckoned  it  out.  It  amounts  to  ten 
thousand  pesetas — a  modest  fortune,  eh  ?" 

Tomaso  nodded  his  head.  He  had  always  known 
that  it  would  come.  The  widow  Navarro  threw  up 
her  eyes,  and  in  a  whisper  called  the  attention  of  her 
own  special  black-letter  saint  to  this  business.  Eosa 
was  glancing  surreptitiously  at  Felipe,  who,  to  do  him 
justice,  was  smiling  on  the  old  man  with  much  ap- 
preciation. 

"You  see  what  I  am,"  continued  the  man  of  busi- 
ness, tapping  his  exuberant  waistcoat ;  "I  am  fat  and 
I  am  sixty-seven.  When  I  return  to  Palma  I  shall 
notify  to  a  lawyer  that  I  leave  to  you,  'Tomaso  of  the 
Mill,'  ten  thousand  pesetas,  to  be  paid  as  soon  after 
my  death  as  possible.  At  Barcelona  I  shall  put  the 
matter  into  legal  form  with  my  own  notary  there." 

He  rose  from  his  seat  on  the  wall  and  held  out  his 
thick  white  hand,  which  Tomaso  took,  and  they  shook 
hands  gravely. 

"As  between  gentlemen,  eh  ?"  said  he ;  "as  between 
gentlemen." 

Then  he  walked  slowly  to  the  other  side  of  the  road, 

17 


TOMASO'S    FOKTUNE 

where  the  driver  was  engaged  in  drawing  his  carriage 
out  of  the  ditch. 

"I  will  enter  your  malediction  of  a  carriage,"  he 
said,  "but  you  must  lead  the  horses  to  the  bottom  of 
the  hill." 

The  carriage  went  slowly  on  its  way,  while  the 
others,  after  watching  it  turn  the  corner,  returned  to 
the  Venta.  In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  Tomaso's 
fortune  had  come.  And  he  had  won  it  with  his  own 
hands,  precisely  as  the  gipsy  from  Granada  had  pre- 
dicted. The  tale,  moreover,  is  true,  and  any  one  can 
verify  it  who  will  take  the  trouble  to  go  to  Palma  de 
Mallorca,  where  half  a  dozen  independent  witnesses 
heard  the  prediction  made  at  a  stall  in  the  crowded 
and  narrow  market-place  nearly  six  months  before  the 
new  Miramar  road  was  completed. 

As  it  was  getting  dusk,  Felipe  Fortis  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  on  to  his  home  in  the  valley  far  down 
the  Valdemosa  road.  And  Tomaso,  with  his  handker- 
chief bound  round  his  hand,  walked  thoughtfully  up 
to  his  solitary  home.  The  great  problem  which  he 
had  thought  out  so  carefully  and  brought  to  so  grim 
and  certain  a  conclusion  had  suddenly  been  reopened. 
And  Kosa  had  noticed  with  the  quickness  of  her  sex 
that  Tomaso  had  carefully  avoided  looking  at  her 
from  the  moment  that  his  good  fortune  had  been  made 
known.  His  manner,  as  he  bade  mother  and  daughter 
a  gruff  good-night,  was  rather  that  of  a  malefactor 

18 


TOMASO'S    FOETUNE 

than  one  who  had  just  done  a  meritorious  action,  and 
Kosa  watched  him  go  with  an  odd  little  wise  smile 
tilting  the  corners  of  her  lips. 

"Good-night,"  she  said.  "You — and  your  fort- 
une." 

And  Tomaso  turned  the  words  over  and  over  in 
his  mind  a  hundred  times,  and  could  make  nothing 
of  them. 

Rosa  was  early  astir  the  next  morning,  and  hap- 
pened to  be  at  the  open  door  when  Tomaso  came  down 
the  road.  He  was  wearing  his  best  hat — a  flat- 
brimmed  black  felt — which,  no  doubt,  the  girl  no- 
ticed, for  it  is  by  the  piecing  together  of  such  trifles 
that  women  hold  their  own  in  this  world.  There  was 
otherwise  no  change  in  Tomaso's  habiliments,  which 
consisted,  as  usual,  of  dark  trousers,  a  white  shirt, 
and  a  dark-blue  faja  or  waistcloth. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  cried  Rosa,  stepping  out 
into  the  sunlight  with  a  haste  called  forth,  perhaps, 
by  the  suspicion  that  Tomaso  would  fain  have  passed 
by  unnoticed. 

He  stopped,  his  bronzed  face  a  deeper  red,  his 
steady  eyes  wavering  for  once.  But  he  did  not  come 
towards  the  Venta,  which  stands  on  the  higher  side 
of  the  road. 

"I  am  going  down  to  Palma — to  make  sure." 

"Of  your  fortune  ?"  inquired  Rosa,  looking  at 
the  cup   she  was  drying  with  the  air  of  superior 

19 


TOMASO'S    FOKTUNE 

knowledge  which  so  completely  puzzled  the  simple 
Tomaso. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  slowly  turning  on  his  heel  as 
if  to  continue  his  journey. 

"And  then ?"  asked  Rosa. 

He  looked  up  inquiringly. 

"When  you  have  made  sure  of  your  precious 
fortune  ?"  she  explained. 

She  had  raised  her  hand  to  her  hair,  and  was  stand- 
ing in  a  very  pretty,  indifferent  attitude.  Tomaso 
held  his  lower  lip  between  his  teeth  as  he  looked  at 
her. 

"I  don't  know  what  I  shall  do  with  it?"  he 
answered,  and  turning,  he  walked  hurriedly  down  the 
sunlit  road. 

"Come  in  on  your  way  back  and  tell  us  about  it," 
she  called  out  after  him,  and  then  stood  watching  him 
until  he  turned  the  corner  where  he  had  picked  up 
his  fortune  on  the  road  the  day  before. 

It  was  characteristic  of  the  man  that  he  never 
turned  to  look  at  her,  and  the  girl  gave  a  little  nod 
of  the  head  as  he  disappeared.  She  had  apparently 
expected  him  not  to  look  back  and  yet  wanted  him  to 
do  it,  and  at  the  same  time  would  rather  he  did  not 
do  it.  Felipe  Fortis  would  have  turned  half  a  dozen 
times,  with  a  salutation  and  a  wave  of  the  hat. 

But  the  sun  went  down  behind  the  tableland  of  the 
Val  d'Erraha  and  Tomaso  did  not  return.    Then  the 

20 


TOMASO'S    FOETUNE 

moon  rose,  large  and  yellow,  beyond  the  Valdemosa 
Heights,  and  the  widow  N'avarro,  her  day's  work 
done,  walked  slowly  up  the  road  to  visit  her  sister,  the 
road-keeper's  wife.  Eosa  sat  on  the  bench  beneath 
the  trellis,  and  thought  those  long  thoughts  that  be- 
long to  youth.  She  heard  Tomaso's  step  long  before 
he  came  in  sight,  for  the  valley  is  thinly  populated 
and  as  still  as  Sahara.  He  was  walking  slowly,  and 
dragged  his  feet  as  if  fatigued.  The  moon  was  now 
well  up,  and  the  girl  could  distinguish  Tomaso's 
gleaming  white  shirt  as  he  tvirned  the  corner.  As  he 
approached  he  kept  on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  road. 
It  was  evident  that  he  intended  to  call  at  the  Venta. 

"He — Tomaso !"  cried  Eosa,  when  he  was  almost 
at  the  steps. 

"He — Eosa !"  he  answered. 

"I  am  all  alone,"  said  Eosa.  "Mother  has  gone  to 
see  Aunt  Luisa.  Have  you  your  fortune  in  your 
pocket  ?" 

He  came  up  the  steps  and  leant  against  the  trellis, 
looking  down  at  her.  She  could  not  see  his  face,  but 
a  woman  does  not  always  need  to  do  that. 

"What  is  it — Tomaso  ?"  she  asked  gravely. 

"That  poor  man,"  he  explained  simply — for  the 
Spaniards  hold  human  life  but  cheaply — "was  found 
dead  in  his  carriage  when  they  reached  Palma.  The 
doctors  say  it  was  the  shock — and  he  so  fat.  At  all 
events  he  is  dead." 

21 


TOMASO'S    FORTUITE 

Eosa  crossed  herself  mechanically,  and  devoutly 
thought  first  of  all  of  the  merchant's  future  state. 

"His  last  action  was  a  good  one,"  she  said.  "There 
is  that  to  remember." 

"Yes,"  said  Tomaso,  in  a  queer  voice.  And  at  the 
sound  Rosa  looked  up  at  him  sharply ;  but  she  could 
see  nothing,  for  his  face  was  in  the  shadow. 

"And  as  for  you,"  she  said  tentatively,  "you  will 
get  your  fortune  all  the  sooner." 

"I  shall  never  get  it  at  all,"  answered  Tomaso, 
with  a  curt  laugh.  "I  went  down  to  Palma  this 
morning  with  my  head  full  of  plans — in  the  sun- 
shine. I  came  back  with  an  empty  brain — in  the 
dark." 

He  stood  motionless,  looking  down  at  her.  They 
are  slow  of  tongue  in  Majorca,  and  Rosa  reflected 
for  quite  a  minute  before  she  spoke — which  is  say- 
ing a  good  deal  for  a  woman. 

"Tell  me,"  she  said  at  length,  gently,  "why  is  it 
that  you  will  not  get  your  fortune  ?" 

"I  went  to  the  notary  and  told  him  what  had  hap- 
pened, what  the  merchant  had  said,  and  who  had 
heard  him — and  the  notary  laughed.  'Where  is  your 
paper  V  he  asked ;  and,  of  course,  I  had  no  paper.  I 
went  to  another  notary,  and  at  last  I  saw  the  Alcalde. 
*You  should  have  asked  for  a  paper  properly  signed,' 
he  said.  But  no  gentleman  could  have  asked  for 
that." 

22 


TOMASO'S    FORTUNE 

"No,"  replied  Rosa,  rather  doubtfully. 

"I  found  the  driver  of  the  carriage,"  continued 
Tomaso,  "and  took  him  to  the  Alcalde,  but  that  was 
no  better.  The  Alcalde  and  the  notaries  laughed  at 
us.  Such  a  story,  they  said,  would  make  any  lawyer 
laugh." 

"But  there  is  Felipe  Fortis,  who  heard  it  too." 

"Yes,"  answered  Tomaso,  in  a  hollow  voice, 
"there  is  Felipe  Fortis.  He  was  in  Palma,  and  I 
found  him  at  the  cafe.  But  he  said  he  had  not  time 
to  come  to  the  Alcalde  with  me  then,  and  he  was  sure 
that  if  he  did  it  would  be  useless." 

"Ah!"  said  Rosa. 

She  got  up  and  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  terrace, 
looking  down  into  the  moonlit  valley  in  silence  for 
some  minutes.  Then  she  came  slowly  back,  and 
stood  before  him  looking  up  into  his  face.  He  was 
head  and  shoulders  above  her. 

"So  your  fortune  is  gone?"  she  said.  And  the 
moonlight  shining  on  her  face  betrayed  the  presence 
of  that  fleeting  wise  smile  which  Tomaso  had  noticed 
more  than  once  with  wonder. 

"Yes — it  is  gone.    And  there  is  an  end  of  it." 

"Of  what  ?"  asked  Rosa. 

"Oh! — of  everything,"  replied  Tomaso,  with  a 
grim  stoicism. 

Rosa  stood  looking  at  him  for  a  moment.  Then 
she   took   two   deliberate   steps   forward    and   leant 

23 


TOMASO'S    FORTUNE 

against  him  just  as  he  was  leaning  against  the  trellis, 
as  if  he  had  been  a  tree  or  something  solid  and  re- 
liable of  that  sort.  She  laid  her  cheek,  of  a  deeper 
color  than  a  sunburnt  peach,  against  his  white  shirt. 
In  a  sort  of  parenthesis  of  thought  she  took  a  sudden, 
half-maternal  interest  in  the  middle  button  of  his 
shirt,  tested  it,  and  found  it  more  firmly  fixed  than 
she  had  supposed.  Her  dusky  hair  just  brushed  his 
chin. 

"Then  you  are  nothing  but  a  stupid,"  she  said. 


24 


SISTER 


II 

SISTER 

It  does  not  matter  where  it  was.  I  do  not  want 
other  people — that  is  to  say,  those  who  were  around 
us — to  recognize  Sister  or  myself.  It  is  not  likely 
that  she  will  see  this,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  she 
knows  my  name.  Of  course,  some  one  may  draw  her 
attention  to  this  paper,  and  she  may  remember  that 
the  name  affixed  to  it  is  that  which  I  signed  at  the 
foot  of  a  document  we  made  out  together — namely,  a 
return  of  deaths.  At  the  foot  of  this  paper  our 
names  stood  one  beneath  the  other — stand  there  still, 
perhaps,  in  some  forgotten  bundle  of  papers  at  the 
War  Office. 

I  only  hope  that  she  will  not  see  this,  for  she  might 
consider  it  a  breach  of  professional  etiquette ;  and  I 
attach  great  importance  to  the  opinion  of  this  woman, 
whom  I  have  only  seen  once  in  my  whole  life.  More- 
over, on  that  occasion  she  was  subordinate  to  me — 
more  or  less  in  the  position  of  a  servant. 

Suffice  it  to  say,  therefore,  that  it  was  war-time, 
and  our  trade  was  what  the  commercial  papers  call 
brisk.     A  war  better  remembered  of  the  young  than 

27 


SISTER 

of  the  old,  because  it  was,  comparatively  speaking, 
recent.  The  old  fellows  seem  to  remember  the  old 
fights  better — those  fights  that  were  fought  when 
their  blood  was  still  young  and  the  vessels  thereof 
unclogged. 

It  was,  by  the  way,  my  first  campaign,  but  I  was 
not  new  to  the  business  of  blood ;  for  I  am  no  soldier 
— only  a  doctor.  My  only  uniform — my  full-parade 
dress — is  a  red  cross  on  the  arm  of  an  old  blue  serge 
jacket — such  jacket  being  much  stained  with  certain 
dull  patches  which  are  better  not  investigated. 

All  who  have  taken  part  in  war — doing  the 
damage  or  repairing  it — know  that  things  are  not 
done  in  quite  the  same  way  when  ball-cartridge  is 
served  out  instead  of  blank.  The  correspondents  are 
very  fond  of  reporting  that  the  behavior  of  the  men 
suggested  a  parade — which  simile,  it  is  to  be  pre- 
sumed, was  borne  in  upon  their  fantastic  brains  by 
its  utter  inapplicability.  The  parade  may  be  sug- 
gested before  the  real  work  begins — when  it  is  a  ques- 
tion of  marching  away  from  the  landing-stage;  but 
after  the  work — our  work — ^has  begun,  there  is  re- 
markably little  resemblance  to  a  review. 

We  are  served  with  many  ofiicial  papers  which  we 
never  fill  in,  because,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  it 
is  apt  to  suggest  itself  that  men's  lives  are  more 
important.  We  misapply  a  vast  majority  of  our 
surgical  supplies,  because  the  most  important  item  is 

28 


SISTER 

usually  left  behind  at  headquarters  or  at  the  seaport 
depot.  In  fact,  we  do  many  things  that  we  should 
leave  undone,  and  omit  to  do  more  which  we  are  ex- 
pected (officially)  to  do. 

Tor  some  reason — presumably  the  absence  of  bet- 
ter men — I  was  sent  up  to  the  front  before  we  had 
been  three  days  at  work.  Our  hospital  by  the  river 
was  not  full  when  I  received  orders  to  follow  the 
flying  column  with  two  assistants  and  the  appliances 
of  a  field-hospital. 

Out  of  this  little  nucleus  sprang  the  largest  depot 
for  sick  and  wounded  that  was  formed  during  the 
campaign.  We  were  within  easy  reach  of  headquar- 
ters, and  I  was  fortunately  allowed  a  free  hand. 
Thus  our  establishment  in  the  desert  grew  daily  more 
important,  and  finally  superseded  the  hospital  at 
headquarters. 

We  had  a  busy  time,  for  the  main  column  had  now 
closed  up  with  the  first  expeditionary  force,  and  our 
troops  were  in  touch  with  the  enemy  not  forty  miles 
away  from  me. 

In  the  course  of  time — when  the  authorities 
learnt  to  cease  despising  the  foe,  which  is  a  little 
failing  in  British  militaiy  high  places — it  was 
deemed  expedient  to  fortify  us,  and  then,  in  addition 
to  two  medical  assistants,  I  was  allowed  three  Gov- 
ernment nurses.  This  last  piece  of  news  was  not 
hailed  with  so  much  enthusiasm  as  might  have  been 

29 


SISTEE 

expected.  I  am  not  in  favor  of  bringing  women 
anywhere  near  the  front.  They  are,  for  their  own 
sakes  and  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  others,  much  bet- 
ter left  behind.  If  they  are  beyond  a  certain  age 
they  break  down  and  have  to  be  sent  back  at  consid- 
erable trouble — that  is  to  say,  an  escort  and  an  ambu- 
lance cart,  of  which  latter  there  are  never  enough.  If 
they  are  below  the  climacteric — ever  so  little  below 
it — they  cause  mischief  of  another  description,  and 
the  wounded  are  neglected ;  for  there  is  no  passion  of 
the  human  heart  so  cruel  and  selfish  as  love. 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,"  I  said  to  light-hearted  lit- 
tle Sammy  Fitz-Warrener  of  the  Naval  Brigade,  who 
brought  me  the  news. 

"Sorry  to  hear  it?  Gad!  I  shouldn't  be.  The 
place  has  got  a  different  look  about  it  when  there  are 
women-folk  around.  They  are  so  jolly  clever  in  their 
ways — worth  ten  of  your  red-cross  ruffians." 

^'That  is  as  may  be,"  I  answered,  breaking  open 
the  case  of  whisky  which  Sammy  had  brought  up  on 
the  carriage  of  his  machine-gun  for  my  private  con- 
sumption. 

He  was  taking  this  machine-gun  up  to  the  front, 
and  mighty  proud  he  was  of  it. 

"A  clever  gun,"  he  called  it ;  "an  almighty  clever 
gun." 

He  had  ridden  alongside  of  it — sitting  on  the  top 
of  his  horse  as  sailors  do — through  seventy  miles  of 

30 


SISTER 

desert  witlioiit  a  halt ;  watching  over  it  and  tending 
it  as  he  might  have  watched  and  tended  his  mother, 
or  perhaps  some  other  woman. 

"Gad !  doctor,"  he  exclaimed,  kicking  out  his 
sturdy  legs,  and  contemplating  with  some  satisfaction 
the  yellow  hide  top-boots  which  he  had  bought  at  the 
Army  and  Kavy  Stores.  (I  know  the  boots  well, 
and — avoid  them.)  "Gad!  doctor,  you  should  see 
that  gun  on  the  war-path.  Travels  as  light  as  a  tri- 
cycle. And  when  she  begins  to  talk — my  stars ! 
Click — click — click — click.  For  all  the  world  like 
a  steam-launch's  engine — mowing  'em  down  all  the 
time.  N'o  work  for  you  there.  It  will  be  no  use  you 
and  your  satellites  progging  about  with  skewers  for 
the  bullet.  Look  at  the  other  side,  my  boy,  and  you'll 
find  the  beauty  has  just  walked  through  them." 

"Soda  or  plain  ?"  I  asked,  in  parenthesis. 

"Soda.  I  don't  like  the  flavor  of  dead  camel. 
A  big  drink,  please.  I  feel  as  if  I  were  lined  with 
sand-paper." 

He  slept  that  night  in  the  little  shanty  built  of 
mud  and  roofed  chiefly  with  old  palm-mats,  which 
was  gracefully  called  the  head  surgeon's  quarters. 
That  is  to  say,  he  partook  of  such  hospitality  as  I  had 
to  offer  him. 

Sammy  and  I  had  met  before  he  had  touched  a  rope 
or  I  a  scalpel.  We  hailed  from  the  same  part  of  the 
country — down  Devonshire  way;  and,  to  a  limited 

31 


SISTER 

extent,  we  knew  each  other's  people — which  little 
phrase  has  a  vast  meaning  in  places  where  men  do 
congregate. 

We  turned  in  pretty  early — I  on  a  hospital  mat- 
tress, he  in  my  bed ;  but  Sam  would  not  go  to  sleep. 
He  would  lie  with  his  arms  above  his  head  (which 
is  not  an  attitude  of  sleep)  and  talk  about  that  ever- 
lasting gun. 

I  dozed  off  to  the  murmur  of  his  voice  expatiating 
on  the  extreme  cunning  of  the  ejector,  and  awoke  to 
hear  details  of  the  rifling. 

We  did  not  talk  of  home,  as  do  men  in  books  when 
lying  by  a  camp-fire.  Perhaps  it  was  owing  to  the 
absence  of  that  picturesque  adjunct  to  a  soldier's  life. 
We  talked  chiefly  of  the  clever  gun;  and  once,  just 
before  he  fell  asleep,  Sammy  returned  to  the  ques- 
tion of  the  nurses. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "the  head  saw-bones  down  there 
told  me  to  tell  you  that  he  had  got  permission  to  send 
you  three  nurses.  Treat  'em  kindly.  Jack,  for  my 
sake.     Bless  their  hearts !     They  mean  well." 

Then  he  fell  asleep,  and  left  me  thinking  of  his 
words,  and  of  the  spirit  which  had  prompted  them. 

I  knew  really  nothing  of  this  man's  life,  but  he 
seemed  singularly  happy,  with  that  happiness  which 
only  comes  when  daily  existence  has  a  background  to 
it.  He  spoke  habitually  of  women,  as  if  he  loved 
them  all  for  the  sake  of  one ;  and  this  not  being  pre- 

32 


SISTER 

cisely  my  own  position,  I  was  glad  when  he  fell 
asleep. 

The  fort  was  astir  next  morning  at  four.  The 
bugler  kindly  blew  a  blast  into  our  glassless  window 
which  left  no  doubt  about  it. 

"That  means  all  hands  on  deck,  I  take  it,"  said 
Sam,  who  was  one  of  the  few  men  capable  of  good 
humor  before  tiffin  time. 

By  six  o'clock  he  was  ready  to  go.  It  was  easy  to 
see  what  sort  of  officer  this  cheery  sailor  was  by  the 
way  his  men  worked. 

While  they  were  getting  the  machine-gim  limbered 
up,  Sam  came  back  to  my  quarters,  and  took  a  hasty 
breakfast. 

"Feel  a  bit  down  this  morning,"  he  said,  with  a 
gay  smile.  "Cheap — very  cheap.  I  hope  I  am  not 
going  to  funk  it.  It  is  all  very  well  for  some  of  you 
long-faced  fellows,  who  don't  seem  to  have  much  to 
live  for,  to  fight  for  the  love  of  fighting.  I  don't 
want  to  fight  any  man ;  I  am  too  fond  of  'em  all  for 
that." 

I  went  out  after  breakfast,  and  I  gave  him  a  leg 
up  on  to  his  very  sorry  horse,  which  he  sat  like  a 
tailor  or  a  sailor.  He  held  the  reins  like  tiller-lines, 
and  indulged  in  a  pleased  smile  at  the  effect  of  the 
yellow  boots. 

"No  great  hand  at  this  sort  of  thing,"  he  said,  with 
a  nod  of  farewell.     "When  the  beast  does  anything 

33 


SISTER 

out  of  the  common,  or  begins  to  make  heavy  weather 
of  it,  I  am  not." 

He  ranged  up  alongside  his  beloved  gun,  and  gave 
the  word  of  command  with  more  dignity  than  he 
knew  what  to  do  with. 

All  that  day  I  was  employed  in  arranging  quar- 
ters for  the  nurses.  To  do  this  I  was  forced  to  turn 
some  of  our  most  precious  stores  out  into  the  open, 
covering  them  with  a  tarpaulin,  and  in  consequence 
felt  all  the  more  assured  that  my  chief  was  making 
a  great  mistake. 

At  nine  o'clock  in  the  evening  they  arrived,  one  of 
the  juniors  having  ridden  out  in  the  moonlight  to 
meet  them.  He  reported  them  completely  exhausted ; 
informed  me  that  he  had  recommended  them  to  go 
straight  to  bed  ;  and  was  altogether  more  enthusiastic 
about  the  matter  than  I  personally  or  officially  cared 
to  see. 

He  handed  me  a  pencil  note  from  my  chief  at  head- 
quarters, explaining  that  he  had  not  written  me  a 
despatch  because  he  had  nothing  but  a  "J"  pen,  with 
which  instrument  he  could  not  make  himself  legible. 
It  struck  me  that  he  was  suffering  from  a  plethora  of 
assistance,  and  was  anxious  to  reduce  his  staff. 

I  sent  my  enthusiastic  assistant  to  the  nurses' 
quarters,  with  a  message  that  they  were  not  to  report 
themselves  to  me  until  they  had  had  a  night's  rest, 
Then  I  turned  in. 

34 


SISTER 

At  midnight  I  was  awakened  by  the  orderly,  and 
summoned  to  the  tent  of  the  officer  in  command. 
This  youth's  face  was  considerably  whiter  than  his 
linen.  He  was  consulting  with  his  second  in  com- 
mand, a  boy  of  twenty-two  or  thereabouts. 

A  man  covered  with  sand  and  blood  was  sitting  in 
a  hammock-chair,  rubbing  his  eyes,  and  drinking 
something  out  of  a  tumbler. 

"News  from  the  front?"  I  inquired  without  cere- 
mony, which  hindrance  we  had  long  since  dispensed 
with. 

"Yes,  and  bad  news." 

It  certainly  was  not  pleasant  hearing.  Some  one 
mentioned  the  word  "disaster,"  and  we  looked  at  each 
other  with  hard,  anxious  eyes.  I  thought  of  the 
women,  and  almost  decided  to  send  them  back  before 
daylight. 

In  a  few  moments  a  fresh  man  was  roused  out  of 
his  bed,  and  sent  full  gallop  through  the  moonlight 
across  the  desert  to  headquarters,  and  the  officer  in 
command  began  to  regain  confidence.  I  think  he  ex- 
tracted it  from  the  despatch-bearer's  tumbler.  After 
all,  he  was  not  responsible  for  much.  He  was  merely 
a  connecting-link,  a  point  of  touch  between  two 
greater  men. 

It  was  necessary  to  get  my  men  to  work  at  once, 
but  I  gave  particular  orders  to  leave  the  nurses  un- 
disturbed.   Disaster  at  the  front  meant  hard  work  at 

35 


SISTER 

the  rear.  We  all  knew  that,  and  endeavored  to 
make  ready  for  a  sudden  rush  of  wounded. 

The  rush  began  before  daylight.  As  they  came  in 
we  saw  to  them,  dressing  their  wounds  and  packing 
them  as  closely  as  possible.  But  the  stream  was  con- 
tinuous. They  never  stopped  coming;  they  never 
gave  us  a  moment's  rest. 

At  six  o'clock  I  gave  orders  to  awaken  the  nurses 
and  order  them  to  prepare  their  quarters  for  the  re- 
ception of  the  wounded.  At  half-past  six  an  Army 
Hospital  Corps  man  came  to  me  in  the  ward. 

''Shockin'  case,  sir,  just  come  in,"  he  said.  "Offi- 
cer.   Gun  busted,  sir." 

"Take  him  to  my  quarters,"  I  said,  wiping  my 
instruments  on  my  sleeve. 

In  a  few  minutes  I  followed,  and  on  entering  my 
little  room  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  a  pair  of  yellow 
boots. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  boots  and  the  white 
duck  trousers,  and  although  I  could  not  see  the  face, 
I  knew  that  this  was  Sammy  Fitz-Warrener  come 
back  again. 

A  woman — one  of  the  nurses  for  whom  he  had 
pleaded — was  bending  over  the  bed  with  a  sponge 
and  a  basin  of  tepid  water.  As  I  entered  she  turned 
upon  me  a  pair  of  calmly  horror-stricken  eyes. 

"Oh!"  she  whispered  meaningly,  stepping  back  to 
let  me  approach.     I  had  no  time  to  notice  then  that 

36 


SISTER 

she  was  one  of  those  largely  built  women,  with  per- 
fect skin  and  fair  hair,  who  make  one  think  of  what 
England  must  have  been  before  Gallic  blood  got  to 
be  so  widely  disseminated  in  the  race. 

"Please  pull  down  that  mat  from  the  window," 
I  said,  indicating  a  temporary  blind  which  I  had 
put  up. 

She  did  so  promptly,  and  returned  to  the  bedside, 
falling  into  position  as  it  were,  awaiting  my 
orders. 

I  bent  over  the  bed,  and  I  must  confess  that  what  I 
saw  there  gave  me  a  thrill  of  horror  which  will  come 
again  at  times  so  long  as  I  live. 

I  made  a  sign  to  Sister  to  continue  her  task  of 
sponging  away  the  mud,  of  which  one  ingredient  was 
sand. 

"Both  eyes,"  she  whispered,  "are  destroyed." 

"Not  the  top  of  the  skull,"  I  said ;  "you  must  not 
touch  that." 

For  we  both  knew  that  our  task  was  without 
hope. 

As  I  have  said,  I  knew  something  of  Fitz-War- 
rener's  people,  and  I  could  not  help  lingering  there, 
where  I  could  do  no  good,  when  I  knew  that  I  was 
wanted  elsewhere. 

Suddenly  his  lips  moved,  and  Sister,  kneeling 
down  on  the  floor,  bent  over  him. 

I  could  not  hear  what  he  said,  but  I  think  she  did. 

37 


SISTER 

I  saw  her  lips  frame  the  whisper  "Yes"  in  reply,  and 
over  her  face  there  swept  suddenly  a  look  of  great 
tenderness. 

After  a  little  pause  she  rose  and  came  to  me. 

"Who  is  he  ?"  she  asked. 

"Fitz-Warrener  of  the  ISTaval  Brigade.  Do  you 
know  him  ?" 

"No,  I  never  heard  of  him.  Of  course — it  is  quite 
hopeless  ?" 

"Quite." 

She  returned  to  her  position  by  the  bedside,  with 
one  arm  laid  across  his  chest. 

Presently  he  began  whispering  again,  and  at  inter- 
vals she  answered  him.  It  suddenly  occurred  to  me 
that,  in  his  unconsciousness,  he  was  mistaking  her 
for  some  one  else,  and  that  she,  for  some  woman's 
reason,  was  deceiving  him  purposely. 

In  a  few  moments  I  was  sure  of  this. 

I  tried  not  to  look;  but  I  saw  it  all.  I  saw  his 
poor  blind  hands  wander  over  her  throat  and  face,  up 
to  her  hair. 

"What  is  this  ?"  he  muttered  quite  distinctly,  with 
that  tone  of  self-absorption  which  characterizes  the 
sayings  of  an  unconscious  man.  "What  is  this  silly 
cap?" 

His  fingers  wandered  on  over  the  snowy  linen  until 
they  came  to  the  strings. 

As  an  aspirant  to  the  title  of  gentleman,  I  felt  like 

38 


SISTER 

running  awaj — many  doctors  know  this  feeling;  as 
a  doctor,  I  could  only  stay. 

His  fingers  fumbled  with  the  strings.  Still  Sister 
bent  over  the  bed.  Perhaps  she  bent  an  inch  or  two 
nearer.  One  hand  was  beneath  his  neck,  supporting 
the  poor  shattered  head. 

He  slowly  drew  off  the  cap,  and  his  fingers  crept 
lovingly  over  the  soft  fair  hair. 

"Marny,"  he  said,  quite  clearly,  "you've  done  your 
hair  up,  and  you're  nothing  but  a  little  girl,  you 
know — nothing  but  a  little  girl." 

I  could  not  help  watching  his  fingers,  and  yet  I 
felt  like  a  man  committing  sacrilege. 

"When  I  left  you,"  said  the  brainless  voice,  "you 
wore  it  down  your  back.  You  were  a  little  girl — you 
are  a  little  girl  now."  And  he  slowly  drew  a  hairpin 
out. 

One  long  lock  fell  curling  to  her  shoulder.  She 
never  looked  up,  never  noticed  me,  but  knelt  there 
like  a  ministering  angel — personating  for  a  time  a 
girl  whom  we  had  never  seen. 

"My  little  girl,"  he  added,  with  a  low  laugh,  and 
drew  out  another  hairpin. 

In  a  few  moments  all  her  hair  was  about  her 
shoulders.  I  had  never  thought  that  she  might  be 
carrying  such  glory  quietly  hidden  beneath  the  sim- 
ple nurse's  cap. 

"That  is  better,"  he  said— "that  is  better."     And 

39 


SISTER 

he  let  all  the  hairpins  fall  on  the  coverlet.  ''ISTow  you 
are  my  own  Marny,"  he  murmured.  "Are  you 
not?" 

She  hesitated  one  moment.  "Yes,  dear,"  she  said 
softly.     "I  am  your  own  Marny." 

With  her  disengaged  hand  she  stroked  his  blanch- 
ing cheek.  There  was  a  certain  science  about  her 
touch,  as  if  she  had  once  known  something  of  these 
matters. 

Lovingly  and  slowly  the  smoke-grimed  fingers 
passed  over  the  wonderful  hair,  smoothing  it. 

Then  he  grew  more  daring.  He  touched  her  eyes, 
her  gentle  cheeks,  the  quiet,  strong  lips.  He  slipped 
to  her  shoulder,  and  over  the  soft  folds  of  her  black 
dress. 

"Been  gardening  ?"  he  asked,  coming  to  the  bib  of 
her  nursing  apron. 

It  was  marvellous  how  the  brain,  which  was  laid 
open  to  the  day,  retained  the  consciousness  of  one 
subject  so  long. 

"Yes — dear,"  she  whispered. 

"Your  old  apron  is  all  wet!"  he  said  reproach- 
fully— touching  her  breast  where  the  blood — his  own 
blood — was  slowly  drying. 

His  hand  passed  on,  and  as  it  touched  her,  I  saw 
her  eyes  soften  into  such  a  wonderful  tenderness  that 
I  felt  as  if  I  were  looking  on  a  part  of  Sister's  life 
which  was  sacred. 

40 


SISTER 

I  saw  a  little  movement  as  if  to  draw  back,  then 
she  resolutely  held  her  position.  But  her  eyes  were 
dull  with  a  new  pain.  I  wonder — I  have  wondered 
ever  since — what  memories  that  poor  senseless  wreck 
of  a  man  was  arousing  in  the  woman's  heart  by  his 
wandering  touch. 

"Marny,"  he  said,  "Marny.  It  was  not  too  hard 
waiting  for  me  ?" 

''m,  dear." 

"It  will  1)0  all  right  now,  Marny.  The  bad  part 
is  all  past." 

"Yes." 

"Marny,  you  remember — the  night — I  left — 
Marny — I  want — no — no,  your  Zips." 

I  knelt  suddenly,  and  slipped  my  hand  within  his 
shirt,  for  I  saw  something  in  his  face. 

As  Sister's  lips  touched  his  I  felt  his  heart  give  a 
great  bound  within  his  breast,  and  then  it  was  still. 

When  she  lifted  her  face  it  was  as  pale  as  his. 

I  must  say  that  I  felt  like  crying — a  feeling  which 
had  not  come  to  me  for  twenty  years.  I  busied  my- 
self purposely  with  the  dead  man,  and  when  I  had 
finished  my  task  I  turned,  and  found  Sister  filling  in 
the  papers — her  cap  neatly  tied,  her  golden  hair 
hidden. 

I  signed  the  certificate,  placing  my  name  beneath 
hers. 

For  a  moment  we  stood.     Our  eyes  met,  and — we 

41 


SISTER 

said  nothing.     She  moved  towards  the  door,  and  I 
held  it  open  while  she  passed  out. 

Two  hours  later  I  received  orders  from  the  officer 
in  command  to  send  the  nurses  back  to  headquarters. 
Our  men  were  falling  back  before  the  enemy. 


42 


A  SMALL   WORLD 


Ill 

A    SMALL   WOKLD 

'  *  Thine  were  the  calming  eyes 
That  round  my  pinnace  could  have  stilled  the  sea, 
And  drawn  thy  voyager  home,  and  bid  him  be 
Pure  with  their  pureness,  with  their  wisdom  wise, 
Merged  in  their  light,  and  greatly  lost  in  thee. '' 

It  was  midday  at  the  monastery  of  Montserrat, 
and  a  monk,  walking  in  the  garden,  turned  and 
paused  in  his  meditative  promenade  to  listen  to  an 
unwonted  noise.  The  silence  of  this  sacred  height 
is  so  intense  that  many  cannot  sleep  at  night  for  the 
hunger  of  a  sound.  There  is  no  running  water  ex- 
cept the  fountain  in  the  patio.  There  are  no  birds 
to  tell  of  spring  and  morning.  There  are  no  trees  for 
the  cool  night  winds  to  stir,  nothing  but  eternal  rock 
and  the  ancient  building  so  closely  associated  with 
the  life  of  Ignatius  de  Loyola.  The  valley,  a  sheer 
three  thousand  feet  below,  is  thinly  enough  popu- 
lated, though  a  great  river  and  the  line  of  railway 
from  Manresa  to  Barcelona  run  through  it.  So  clear 
is  the  atmosphere  that  at  the  great  distance  the  con- 
templative denizens  of  the  monastery  may  count  the 

45 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

number  of  the  railway  carriages,  while  no  sound  of 
the  train,  or  indeed  of  any  life  in  the  valley,  reaches 
their  ears. 

What  the  monk  heard  was  disturbing,  and  he  hur- 
ried to  the  corner  of  the  garden,  from  whence  a  view 
of  the  winding  road  may  be  obtained.  Floating  on 
the  wind  came  the  sound,  as  from  another  world,  of 
shouting,  and  the  hollow  rumble  of  wheels.  The  holy 
man  peered  down  into  the  valley,  and  soon  verified 
his  fears.  It  was  the  diligencia,  which  had  quitted 
the  monastery  a  short  hour  ago,  that  flew  down  the 
hill  to  inevitable  destruction.  Once  before  in  the 
recollection  of  the  watcher  the  mules  had  run  away, 
rushing  down  to  their  death,  and  carrying  with  them 
across  that  frontier  the  lives  of  seven  passengers,  de- 
vout persons,  who,  having  performed  the  pilgrimage 
to  the  shrine  of  our  Lady  of  Montserrat,  had  doubt- 
less received  their  reward.  The  monk  crossed  him- 
self, but,  being  human,  forgot  alike  to  pray  and  to 
call  his  brethren  to  witness  the  scene.  It  was  like 
looking  at  a  play  from  a  very  high  gallery.  The 
miniature  diligencia  on  the  toy  road  far  below 
swayed  from  the  bank  of  the  highway  to  the  verge — 
the  four  mules  stretched  out  at  a  gallop,  as  in  a 
picture.  The  shouts  dimly  heard  at  the  monastery 
had  the  effect  they  were  intended  to  create,  for  the 
monk  could  see  the  carters  and  muleteers  draw  aside 
to  let  the  living  avalanche  go  past. 

46 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

There  were  but  two  men  on  the  box-seat  of 
the  diligencia — the  driver  and  a  passenger  seated 
bj  his  side.  The  monk  recollected  that  this 
passenger  had  passed  two  days  at  Montserrat,  inscrib- 
ing himself  in  the  visitors'  book  as  Matthew  S. 
Whittaker. 

"I  am  ready  to  take  the  reins  when  your  arms  are 
cramped,"  this  passenger  was  saying  at  that  precise 
moment,  "but  I  do  not  know  the  road,  and  I  cannot 
drive  so  well  as  you." 

He  finished  with  a  curt  laugh,  and,  holding  on  with 
both  hands,  he  turned  and  looked  at  his  companion. 
He  was  not  afraid,  and  death  assuredly  stared  him  in 
the  face  at  that  moment. 

"Thanks  for  that,  at  all  events,"  returned  the 
driver,  handling  his  reins  with  a  steady  skill.  Then 
he  fell  to  cursing  the  mules.  As  he  rounded  each 
corner  of  the  winding  road,  he  gave  a  derisive  shout 
of  triumph ;  as  he  safely  passed  a  cart,  he  gave  voice 
to  a  yell  of  defiance.  He  went  to  his  death — if  death 
awaited  him — with  a  fine  spirit,  with  a  light  in  his 
eyes  and  the  blood  in  his  tanned  cheeks. 

The  man  at  his  side  could  perhaps  have  saved  him- 
self by  a  leap  which  might,  with  good  fortune,  have 
resulted  in  nothing  more  serious  than  a  broken  limb. 
As  he  had  been  invited  by  the  driver  to  take  this  leap 
and  had  curtly  declined,  it  is  worth  while  to  pause 
and  give  particulars  of  this  passenger  on  the  runa- 

47 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

way  diligencia.  He  was  a  slightly  built  man, 
dressed  in  the  ordinary  dark  clothes  and  soft  black 
felt  hat  of  the  middle-class  Spaniard.  His  face  was 
brown  and  sun-dried,  with  deep  lines  drawn  down- 
wards from  the  nose  to  the  lips  in  such  a  manner  that 
cynicism  and  a  mildly  protesting  tolerance  were  con- 
tending for  mastery  in  an  otherwise  studiously  in- 
expressive countenance. 

"The  Excellency  does  not  blame  me  for  this  ?"  the 
driver  jerked  out,  as  he  hauled  round  a  corner  with 
a  sort  of  pride. 

"1*^0,  my  friend,"  replied  the  American;  and  he 
broke  off  suddenly  to  curve  his  two  hands  around  his 
lips  and  give  forth  a  warning  shout  in  a  clear  tenor 
that  rang  down  the  valley  like  a  trumpet. 

A  muleteer  leading  a  heavily  laden  animal  drew 
his  beast  into  the  ditch,  and  leapt  into  the  middle  of 
the  road.  He  stepped  nimbly  aside  and  sprang  at 
the  leading  mule,  but  was  rolled  into  the  ditch  like 
an  old  hat. 

"That  is  an  old  torero,"  shouted  the  driver. 
"Bravo,  bravo !" 

As  they  flew  on,  AVhittaker  turned  in  his  seat  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  man  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  road,  with  arms  spread  out  in  an  attitude  of 
apology  and  deprecation. 

"Ah !"  cried  the  driver,  "we  shall  not  pass  these. 
Now,  leap!" 

48 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

"No,"  answered  the  other,  and  gave  his  warning 
shout. 

Below  them  on  the  spiral  road  two  heavy  carts 
were  slowly  mounting.  These  were  the  long  coun- 
try carts  used  for  the  carriage  of  wine  casks,  heavily 
laden  with  barrels  for  the  monastery.  The  drivers, 
looking  up,  saw  in  a  moment  what  to  expect,  and  ran 
to  the  head  of  their  long  teams  of  eight  mules,  but 
all  concerned  knew  in  a  flash  of  thought  that  they 
could  not  pull  aside  in  time. 

"Leap,  in  the  name  of  a  saint!"  cried  the  driver, 
clenching  his  teeth. 

Whittaker  made  no  answer.  But  he  cleared  his 
feet  and  sat  forward,  his  keen  face  and  narrow  eyes 
alert  to  seize  any  chance  of  life.  The  maddened 
mules  rushed  on,  seeking  to  free  themselves  from 
the  swaying  destroyer  on  their  heels.  The  leaders 
swung  round  the  comer,  but  refused  to  obey  the  reins 
when  they  caught  sight  of  the  cart  in  front.  The 
brakes  had  long  ceased  to  act ;  the  wooden  blocks  were 
charred  as  by  fire.  The  two  heavier  mules  at  the 
pole  made  a  terrified  but  intelligent  attempt  to  check 
the  pace,  and  the  weighty  vehicle  skidded  sideways 
across  the  road,  shuddering  and  rattling  as  it  went. 
It  poised  for  a  moment  on  the  edge  of  the  slope,  while 
the  mules  threw  themselves  into  their  collars — their 
intelligence  seeming  to  rise  at  this  moment  to  a  hu- 
man height.     Then  the  great  vehicle  turned  slowly 

49 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

over,  and  at  the  same  moment  Whittaker  and  the 
driver  leapt  into  the  tangle  of  heels  and  harness. 
One  of  the  leaders  swung  right  out  in  mid-air  with 
flying  legs  and  mules  and  deligencia  rolled  over 
and  over  down  the  steep  in  a  cloud  of  dust  and 
stones. 

When  Matthew  S.  Whittaker  recovered  conscious- 
ness, he  found  himself  in  a  richly  furnished  bedroom. 
He  woke  as  if  from  sleep,  with  his  senses  fully  alert, 
and  began  at  once  to  take  an  interest  in  a  conversa- 
tion of  which  he  had  been  conscious  in  the  form  of  a 
faint  murmur  for  some  time. 

"A  broken  arm,  my  child,  and  nothing  more,  so 
far  as  I  can  tell  at  present,"  were  the  first  compre- 
hensible words. 

Whittaker  tried  to  move  his  left  arm,  and  winced. 

"And  the  other  man  ?"  inquired  a  woman's  voice 
in  Spanish,  but  with  an  accent  which  the  listener  rec- 
ognized at  once.  This  was  an  Englishwoman  speak- 
ing Spanish. 

"Ah !  the  other  man  is  dead.  Poor  Miguel !  He 
was  always  civil  and  God-fearing.  He  has  driven 
the  diligencia  up  to  us  for  nearly  twenty  years." 

Whittaker  turned  his  head,  and  winced  again.  The 
speaker  was  a  monk — fat  and  good-natured — one  of 
the  few  now  left  in  the  great  house  on  Montserrat. 
His  interlocutor  was  a  woman  not  more  than  thirty, 
with  brown  hair  that  gleamed  in  the  sunlight,  and  a 

50 


A    SMALL   WOELD 

fresh,  thoughtful  face.  Her  attitude  was  somewhat 
independent.,  her  manner  indicated  a  self-reliant 
spirit.  This  was  a  woman  who  would  probably  make 
mistakes  in  life,  but  these  would  not  be  the  errors  of 
omission.  She  was  a  prototype  of  a  sex  and  an  age 
which  err  in  advancing  too  quickly,  and  in  holding 
that  everything  which  is  old-fashioned  must  neces- 
sarily be  foolish. 

Whittaker  lay  quite  still  and  watched  these  two, 
while  the  deep-drawn  lines  around  his  lips  indicated 
a  decided  sense  of  amusement.  He  was  in  pain,  but 
that  was  no  new  condition  to  a  man  whose  spirit  had 
ever  been  robuster  than  his  body.  He  had,  at  all 
events,  not  been  killed,  and  his  last  recollection  had 
been  the  effort  to  face  death.  So  he  lay  with  a 
twisted  smile  on  his  lips  listening  to  Brother  Lucas, 
who,  sad  old  monk  that  he  was,  took  infinite  pleasure 
in  glorifying  to  the  young  lady  his  own  action  in 
causing  the  monastery  cart  to  be  brought  out,  and  in 
driving  down  the  slope  at  a  breakneck  pace  to  place  his 
medical  knowledge  at  the  disposal  of  such  as  might 
require  it.  He  bowed  in  a  portly  way,  and  indicated 
with  a  very  worldly  politeness  that  he  himself  was, 
in  fact,  at  the  disposal  of  the  Seiiorita. 

"I  was  not  always  a  monk — I  began  life  as  a  doc- 
tor," he  explained. 

And  his  companion  looked  at  him  with  speculative, 
clever  eyes,  scenting  afar  off,  with  the  quickness  of 

51 


A    SMALL    WOKLD 

her  ki-nd,  the  usual  little  romance — the  everlasting 
woman. 

"Ah !"  she  said  slowly. 

And  Whittaker  in  the  alcove  coughed  with  dis- 
cretion.    Both  turned  and  hurried  towards  him. 

"He  has  recovered  his  senses,"  said  the  girl. 

The  monk  had,  however,  not  laid  aside  all  the 
things  of  this  world.  He  remembered  the  little  cere- 
monies appertaining  to  the  profession  which  he  had 
once  practised.  He  waved  aside  the  girl,  and 
stooped  over  the  bed. 

"You  understand  what  I  say — you  see  me  ?"  he 
inquired  in  a  soothing  voice. 

"Most  assuredly,"  replied  Whittaker,  coolly. 
"Most  assuredly,  my  father.  And  I  do  not  think 
there  is  much  the  matter  with  me." 

"Holy  Saints,  but  you  go  too  quickly,"  laughed 
the  monk.  "You  will  be  wanting  next  to  get  up  and 
walk." 

"I  should  not  mind  trying," 

"Ah,  that  is  good !  Then  you  will  soon  be  well. 
Sefiorita,  we  shall  have  no  trouble  with  this  patient. 
This,  Seiior,  is  the  Senorita  Cheyne,  in  whose  house 
you  find  yourself,  and  to  whom  your  thanks  are  due." 

Whittaker  turned  in  bed  to  thank  her ;  but  instead 
of  speaking,  he  quietly  fainted.  He  came  to  his 
senses  again,  and  found  that  it  was  evening.  The 
windows  of  his  room  were  open,  and  he  could  see 

52 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

across  the  valley  the  brown  hills  of  Catalonia,  faintly 
tinged  with  pink.  A  nursing  sister  in  her  dark  blue 
dress  and  white  winged  cap  was  seated  at  the  open 
window,  gazing  reflectively  across  the  valley.  There 
was  an  odor  of  violets  in  the  room.  A  fitful  breeze 
stirred  the  lace  curtains.  Whittaker  perceived  his 
own  travel-worn  portmanteau  lying  half  unpacked  on 
a  side  table.  It  seemed  that  some  on©  had  opened  it 
to  seek  the  few  necessaries  of  the  moment.  He  noted 
with  a  feeling  of  helplessness  that  his  simple  trav- 
elling accessories  had  been  neatly  arranged  on  the 
dressing-table.  A  clean  handkerchief  lay  on  the 
table  at  the  bedside.  The  wounded  man  became  con- 
scious of  a  feeling  that  he  had  lost  some  of  the  soli- 
tary liberty  which  had  hitherto  been  his.  It  seemed 
that  he  had  been  picked  up  on  the  road  helpless  and 
insensible  by  some  one  with  the  will  and  power  to 
take  entire  charge  of  him.  The  feeling  was  so  new 
to  this  adventurer  that  he  lay  still  and  smiled. 

Presently  the  nun  rose  and  came  quietly  towards 
him,  disclosing  within  the  halo  of  her  snowy  cap  a 
gentle  pink-and-white  face  wrinkled  by  the  passage 
of  uneventful  years.  She  nodded  cheerfully  on  see- 
ing that  his  eyes  were  open,  and  gave  him  some  soup 
which  was  warming  on  a  spirit  lamp  in  readiness  for 
his  return  to  consciousness. 

"I  will  tell  the  Senorita,"  she  said,  and  noiselessly 
quitted  the  room. 

53 


A    SMALL   WORLD 

A  minute  later  Miss  Cheyne  came  in  with  a  pleas- 
ant frou-frou  of  silk,  and  Wliittaker  wondered  for 
whom  she  had  dressed  so  carefully. 

"I  did  not  know,"  she  said  in  English,  with  an 
ease  of  manner  which  is  of  this  generation,  "that  I 
had  succored  a  countryman.  You  were  literally 
thrown  at  my  gate.  But  the  doctor,  who  has  just 
left,  confirms  the  opinion  of  Brother  Lucas  that  you 
are  not  seriously  hurt.  A  broken  fore-arm  and  a  se- 
vere shake,  they  say — to  be  cured  by  complete  rest, 
which  you  will  be  able  to  enjoy  here.  For  there  is 
no  one  in  the  house  but  my  aunt,  Mrs.  Dorchester, 
and  myself." 

She  stood  at  the  bedside,  looking  down  at  him  with 
her  capable,  managing  air.  Whittaker  now  knew  the 
source  of  that  sense  of  being  "taken  in  and  done 
for,"  of  which  he  had  become  conscious  the  moment 
his  senses  returned  to  him. 

"They  say,"  she  went  on,  with  a  decisiveness 
which  was  probably  an  accentuation  of  her  usual  at- 
titude, inspired  by  the  necessity  of  sparing  the 
patient  the  exertion  of  an  explanation  or  an  apology 
— "they  say,  however,  that  you  are  not  naturally  a 
very  strong  man,  and  that  you  have  tried  your  consti- 
tution in  the  past  so  that  greater  care  is  required  than 
would  otherwise  be  necessary  in  such  a  case." 

She  looked  at  the  brown  face  and  sinewy  neck,  the 
hollow  cheeks,  the  lean  hands  ("all  wires,"  as  she  de- 

54 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

cided  in  her  own  prompt  mind),  and  her  clear  eyes 
were  alight  with  a  speculation  as  to  what  the  past  had 
been  in  which  this  man  had  tried  his  constitution. 

"I  have  led  a  rough  life,"  explained  Whittaker; 
and  Miss  Cheyne  nodded  her  head  in  a  manner  in- 
dicative of  the  fact  that  she  divined  as  much. 

"I  thought  you  were  a  Spaniard,"  she  said. 

"Ko;  I  have  lived  in  the  Spanish  colonies,  how- 
ever— the  last  few  years — since  the  troubles  began." 

Miss  Cheyne  nodded  again  without  surprise.  She 
had  gone  about  the  world  with  those  clear  eyes  of 
hers  very  wide  open,  and  was  probably  aware  that  in 
those  parts  where,  as  Wliittaker  gracefully  put  it, 
^'troubles"  are,  such  men  as  this  are  usually  to  be 
found.  For  it  is  not  the  large  men  who  make  a  stir 
in  the  world.  These  usually  sit  at  home  and  love  a 
life  of  ease.  It  is  even  said  that  they  take  to  novel- 
writing  and  other  sedentary  occupations.  And  in  the 
forefront,  where  things  are  stirring  and  history  is  to 
be  manufactured,  are  found  the  small  and  the  frail, 
such  as  Matthew  S.  Whittaker,  who,  in  addition  to 
the  battles  of  progress,  have  to  contend  personally 
against  constitutional  delicacy,  nervous  depression, 
and  disease. 

Miss  Cheyne  kept  silence  for  a  few  moments,  and, 
during  the  pause,  turned  at  the  sound  of  horses'  feet 
on  the  gravel  below  the  windows.  She  seemed  to 
have  been  expecting  an  arrival,  and  Whittaker  no- 

55 


A    SMALL   WORLD 

ticed  a  sudden  brightening  of  the  eyes,  an  almost  im- 
perceptible movement  of  the  shoulders,  as  if  Miss 
Cheyne  was  drawing  herself  up.  The  American 
quickly  reflected  that  the  somewhat  elaborate  "toi- 
lette" was  unusual,  and  connected  it  with  the  ex- 
pected visitor.  He  was  not  surprised  when,  with  a 
polite  assurance  that  he  had  only  to  ask  for  anything 
he  might  require,  she  turned  and  left  him. 

Whittaker  now  remembered  having  been  told  by 
the  voluble  driver  of  the  diligencia  the  history  of  a 
certain  English  Sehorita  who,  having  inherited  projD- 
erty  from  a  forgotten  uncle,  had  come  to  live  in  her 
"possession"  on  the  mountain  side.  He  further 
recollected  that  the  house  had  been  pointed  out  to 
him — a  long,  low  dwelling  of  the  dull  red  stone 
quarried  in  this  part  of  Catalonia.  Being  of  an 
observant  habit,  he  remembered  that  the  house  was 
overgrown  by  a  huge  wisteria,  and  faced  eastward. 
He  turned  his  head  painfully,  and  now  saw  that  his 
windows  were  surrounded  by  mauve  fronds  of  wis- 
teria. His  room  was,  therefore,  situated  in  the  front 
of  the  house.  There  was,  he  recollected,  a  veranda 
below  his  windows,  and  he  wondered  whether  Miss 
Cheyne  received  her  visitors  there  in  the  cool  of  the 
afternoon.  He  listened  half-sleepily,  and  heard  the 
horse  depart,  led  away  by  a  servant.  There  followed 
the  murmur  of  a  conversation,  between  two  persons 
only,  below  his  window.     So  far  as  he  could  gather 

56 


A    SMALL   WOKLD 

from  the  tones,  for  the  words  were  inaudible,  they 
were  spoken  in  English.    And  thus  he  fell  asleep. 

During  the  next  few  days  Whittaker  made  good 
progress,  and  fully  enjoyed  the  quiet  prescribed  to 
him  by  the  doctors.  The  one  event  of  the  day  was 
Miss  Cheyne's  visit,  to  which  he  soon  learnt  to  look 
forward.  He  had,  during  an  adventurous  life,  had 
little  to  do  with  women,  and  Miss  Clievne  soon  con- 
vinced  him  of  the  fact  that  many  qualities — such  as 
independence,  courage,  and  energy — were  not,  as  he 
had  hitherto  imagined,  the  monopoly  of  men  alone. 
But  the  interest  thus  aroused  did  not  seem  to  be 
mutual.  Miss  Cheyne  was  kind  and  quick  to  divine 
his  wants  or  thoughts ;  but  her  visits  did  not  grow 
longer  day  by  day  as,  day  by  day,  Whittaker  wished 
they  would.  Daily,  moreover,  the  visitor  arrived  on 
horseback,  and  the  murmured  conversation  in  the 
veranda  duly  followed.  A  few  weeks  earlier  Whit- 
taker had  made  the  voyage  across  to  the  island  of 
Majorca,  to  visit  an  old  companion-in-arms  there, 
and  offer  him  a  magnificent  inducement  to  return  to 
active  service.  That  comrade  had  smilingly  answered 
that  he  held  cards  of  another  suit.  Miss  Cheyne 
likewise  appeared  to  hold  another  suit,  and  the 
American  felt  vaguely  that  the  dealer  of  life's  cards 
seemed  somehow  to  have  passed  him  by. 

He  daily  urged  the  young  doctor  to  allow  him  to 
leave  his  bed,  "if  only,"  he  pleaded  with  his  twisted 

57 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

smile,  "to  sit  in  a  chair  by  the  window."  /\.t  last  he 
gained  his  jioint,  and  sat,  watch  in  hand,  awaiting 
the  arrival  of  Miss  Cheyne's  daily  visitor.  To  the 
end  of  his  life  Matthew  ^Miittaker  believed  that  some 
instinct  guided  him  at  this  time.  He  had  only  spoken 
with  his  nnrse  and  the  doctor,  and  had  refrained 
from  making  inqniries  of  either  respecting  the  lady 
whose  hospitality  he  enjoyed.  He  had  now  carefully 
recalled  all  that  the  dead  driver  of  the  diligencia  had 
told  him,  and  had  dismissed  half  of  it  as  mere  gos- 
sip. Beyond  the  fact  that  Miss  Cheyne's  aunt,  Mrs. 
Dorchester,  acted  as  her  companion,  he  knew  nothing. 
But  he  had  surmised,  from  remarks  dropped  by  the 
young  lady  herself,  that  her  mother  had  been  a  Span- 
iard; hence  the  uncle  from  whom  she  had  inherited 
this  estate.  He  also  had  reason  to  believe  that  Miss 
Cheyne's  mother  had  brought  her  up  in  the  older 
faith. 

He  reflected  on  these  matters,  and  smiled  half 
cynically  at  the  magnitude  of  his  own  interest  in 
Miss  Cheyne  as  he  sat  at  the  open  window.  He  had 
not  long  to  wait  before  the  clatter  of  horse's  feet  on 
the  hard  road  became  audible.  The  house  stood  back 
from  the  high-road  in  the  midst  of  terraced  olive 
groves,  and  was  entirely  surrounded  by  a  grove  of 
cypress  and  ilex  trees.  The  visitor,  whose  advent  was 
doubtless  awaited  with  as  keen  an  impatience  by  an- 
other  within   the    red    stone   house,    now   leisurely 

58 


A    SMALL   WORLD 

ajDproached  beneath  the  avenue  of  evergreen  oak. 
Whittaker  got  painfully  upon  his  feet,  and  stood, 
half  concealed  by  the  curtain.  He  was  conscious  of 
a  singular  lack  of  surprise  when  he  recognized  the 
face  of  the  horseman  as  one  that  he  had  already  seen, 
though,  when  he  came  in  a  flash  of  thought  to  reflect 
upon  it,  this  among  all  he  knew  was  the  last  face  that 
he  could  have  expected  to  see  in  that  place. 

He  sat  down  quite  coolly  and  mechanically,  think- 
ing and  acting  as  men  think  and  act,  by  instinct,  in  a 
crisis.  He  seemed  to  be  obeying  some  pre-ordained 
plan. 

The  horseman  was  dark  and  clean  shaven — the 
happy  possessor  of  one  of  those  handsome  Andalusian 
faces  which  are  in  themselves  a  passport  in  a  world 
that  in  its  old  age  still  persists  in  judging  by  appear- 
ance. Whittaker  scrupulously  withdrew  from  the 
window.  He  had  no  desire  to  overhear  their  conver- 
sation. But  his  eyes  were  fierce*  with  a  sudden 
anger.  The  very  attitude  of  the  new-comer — his  re- 
spectful, and  yet  patronizing,  manner  of  removing 
his  hat — clearly  showed  that  he  was  a  lover,  perhaps 
a  favored  one.  And  the  American,  who,  with  all 
his  knowledge  of  the  world,  knew  so  little  of  women, 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room  wrapt  in  thought. 
It  seemed  hardly  possible  that  a  woman  of  Miss 
Cheyne's  intelligence,  a  woman  no  longer  in  the  first 
flush  of  girlliood,  should  fail  to  perceive  the  obvious. 

59 


A    SMALL   WORLD 

He  did  not  know  that  so  far  as  her  vanity  is  concerned 
a  woman  does  not  grow  older  by  the  passage  of  years, 
but  younger — that  she  will  often,  for  the  sake  of  a 
little  admiration,  accept  the  careless  patronage  of  a 
man,  knowing  well  that  his  one  good  quality  is  the 
skill  with  which  he  flatters  her.  He  was  not  aware 
that  Miss  Cheyne  was  distinctly  handicapped,  and 
that  her  judgment  was  warped  by  the  fact  that  she 
had  by  some  chance  or  another  reached  to  years  of 
discretion  without  ever  having  had  a  lover. 

Whittaker  was  not  an  impulsive  man,  although  as 
prompt  in  action  as  he  was  quick  to  make  a  decision. 
He  was  a  citizen  of  that  new  country  where  an  old 
chivalry  still  survives.  His  sense  of  chivalry  was 
also  intensified  by  the  fact,  already  stated,  that  he 
knew  but  little  of  that  sex  which  is  at  the  moment 
making  a  superficial  stir  in  the  world. 

"If  the  harm  is  done,  a  day  more  will  make  it  no 
worse,  I  reckon,"  he  said  reflectively.  He  would  not 
listen  to  what  they  said,  though  he  could  have  heard 
easily  enough,  had  he  so  desired.  He  watched  Miss 
Cheyne  and  her  lover,  however,  as  they  slowly  walked 
the  length  of  the  garden — she,  holding  a  fan  in  the 
Spanish  fashion,  to  shield  her  face  from  the  setting 
sun ;  the  man,  hat  in  hand,  and  carrying  himself  with 
a  sort  of  respectful  grandeur,  characteristic  of  his 
race.  At  the  end  of  the  garden  they  paused,  and 
Whittaker  smiled  cynically  at  the  sight  of  the  man's 

GO 


A    SMALL   WOELD 

dark  eyes  as  he  looked  at  Miss  Cheyne.  He  was  ap- 
parently asking  for  something,  and  she  at  last 
yielded,  giving  him  slowly,  almost  shyly,  a  few  vio- 
lets that  she  had  worn  in  her  belt.  Whittaker  gave 
a  curt  laugh,  but  his  eyes  were  by  no  means  mirthful. 

Later  in  the  evening  Miss  Cheyne  came  into  his 
room. 

"You  have  had  a  visitor,"  he  said,  in  the  course  of 
their  usual  conversation. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  frankly;  and  Whittaker  re- 
flected that,  at  all  events,  she  knew  her  own  mind. 

He  said  nothing  further  upon  that  subject,  but 
later  he  referred  to  a  topic  which  he  had  hitherto 
scrupulously  avoided.  He  had  passed  his  life  among 
a  class  of  men  who  were  not  in  the  habit  of  growing 
voluble  respecting  themselves. 

"I  think  you  take  me  for  an  Englishman,"  he  said. 
"I  am  not.     I  am  an  American." 

"Indeed!  You  have  no  accent,"  replied  Miss 
Cheyne ;  and,  despite  that  other  suit  of  cards  that  she 
held,  she  looked  at  him  speculatively.  She  was,  in  a 
way,  interested  in  him. 

"I  have  lived  abroad  a  great  deal,  the  last  few  years 
in  Cuba."    And  his  quick  eyes  flashed  across  her  face. 

She  was  not  interested  in  Cuba,  at  all  events,  and 
evidently  knew  nothing  of  that  distressful  island. 
When  she  left  him,  he  stood  looking  at  the  closed 
door  reflectively. 

61 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

"It  will  be  for  to-morrow,"  he  said  to  himself,  with 
his  short  laugh. 

The  next  morning  the  doctor  paid  his  usual  visit, 
and  Whittaker  handed  him  an  envelope. 

"I  am  leaving  this  evening,"  he  said,  "and  I  shall 
leave  in  your  debt." 

The  doctor,  who  was  a  young  man  and  a  Spanish 
gentleman,  slipped  the  envelope  into  his  pocket. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "The  debt  is  mine.  You 
are  not  fit  to  be  moved  yet ;  but  it  is  as  you  like." 

"Will  you  order  me  a  carriage  to  be  here  at  five 
o'clock  this  evening?" 

"I  will  do  as  you  like." 

"And  omit  to  mention  it  to  my  hostess.  You  un- 
derstand my  position  here,  and  my  fear  of  outstaying 
a  most  courteous  welcome  ?" 

"I  understand,"  said  the  doctor,  and  departed. 

At  four  o'clock  Whittaker  had  packed  his  port- 
manteau. He  took  up  his  position  at  the  window  and 
waited.  Before  long  he  heard  the  sound  of  horse's 
feet.  Miss  Cheyne's  visitor  presently  appeared,  and 
swung  off  his  hat  with  the  usual  deferential  pride. 
The  horse  was  led  away.  The  usual  murmured  con- 
versation followed.  Whittaker  rose  and  walked  to 
the  door.  He  paused  on  the  threshold,  and  looked 
slowly  round  the  room  as  if  conscious  then  that  the 
moment  was  to  be  one  of  the  indelible  memories  of 
his  life. 

62 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

On  the  stairs  he  needed  the  support  of  the 
balustrade.  When  he  reached  the  veranda  his  face 
was  colorless,  with  shining  eyes.  Miss  Cheyne  was 
sitting  with  her  back  turned  towards  him,  but  her 
companion  saw  him  at  once  and  rose  to  his  feet,  lift- 
ing his  hat  with  a  politely  inquiring  air.  From  long 
habit  acquired  among  a  naturally  polite  people,  Whit- 
taker  returned  the  salutation. 

"You  do  not  recognize  me,  Senor?"  he  said,  in 
English. 

And  the  other  shook  his  head,  still  polite  and  rather 
surprised. 

"I  was  known  in  Cuba  by  the  name  of  Mateo." 

The  Spaniard's  handsome,  sunburnt  face  slowly 
turned  to  the  color  of  ashes.  His  eyes  looked  into 
Whittaker's,  not  in  anger,  but  with  a  pathetic 
mingling  of  reproach  and  despair. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?"  said  Miss  Cheyne, 
alert,  and  rising,  characteristically,  to  the  emergency 
of  the  moment. 

Whittaker  bit  his  lip  and  looked  at  the  Spaniard, 
who  seemed  to  be  dazed. 

"You  had  better  go,"  he  said,  almost  gently. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?"  repeated  Miss 
Cheyne,  looking  from  one  to  the  other.  Then  she 
turned  to  Whittaker,  by  what  instinct  she  never 
knew.  "^^Tio  is  this  gentleman  ?"  she  asked,  angrily. 
"What  have  you  against  him  ?" 

63 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

Whittaker,  still  biting  his  lip,  looked  hard  at  her. 
Then  he  made  a  gesture  with  his  two  hands,  which 
was  more  eloquent  than  a  thousand  words;  for  it 
seemed  to  convey  to  the  two  persons  who  breathlessly- 
awaited  his  words,  that  he  found  himself  in  a  posi- 
tion that  was  intolerable. 

"I  knew  him  in  Cuba,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  have 
nothing  against  him.  Miss  Cheyne ;  but  the  man  is  a 
priest." 

*  *  45'  *  *  * 

"There,  Senorita — I  have  made  it  myself." 
The  proprietor  of  the  Venta  of  the  Moor's  Mill  set 
down  upon  the  table  in  front  of  the  inn  a  cracked 
dish  containing  an  omelette.  It  was  not  a  bad 
omelette,  though  not  quite  innocent  of  wood-ash,  per- 
haps, and  somewhat  ill-shapen.  The  man  laughed 
gaily  and  drew  himself  up.  So  handsome  a  man 
could  surely  be  forgiven  a  broken  omelette  and  some 
charcoal,  if  only  for  the  sake  of  his  gay  blue  eyes, 
his  curling  brown  hair,  and  his  devil-may-care  air 
of  prosperity.  He  looked  at  the  Seiiorita  and  laughed 
in  the  manner  of  a  man  who  had  never  yet  failed  to 
"get  on"  with  women.  He  folded  his  arms  with  fine, 
open  gestures,  and  stood  looking  with  approving  nods 
upon  his  own  handiwork.  He  was  without  the 
shadow  of  the  trailing  vine  which  runs  riot  over 
bamboo  trelliswork  in  front  of  the  Venta,  affording 
a  much  needed  shade  in  this  the  sunniest  spot  in  all 

64 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

Majorca,  and  the  fierce  sun  beat  down  upon  his  face, 
which  was  tanned  a  deep,  healthy  brown.  He  was 
clad  almost  in  white ;  for  his  trousers  were  of  canvas, 
his  shirt  of  spotless  linen.  Round  his  waist  he  wore 
the  usual  Spanish  faja  or  bright  red  cloth.  He  was 
consciously  picturesque,  and  withal  so  natural,  so 
good-natured,  so  astonishingly  optimistic,  as  to  be 
quite  inoffensive  in  his  child-like  conceit. 

The  Venta  of  the  Moor's  Mill  stands,  as  many 
know,  at  the  northern  end  of  the  Val  D'Erraha,  look- 
ing down  upon  the  broader  valley,  through  which 
runs  the  high-road  from  Raima  to  Valdemosa.  The 
city  of  Raima,  itself,  is  only  a  few  miles  away,  for 
such,  as  know  the  mountain  path.  Few  customers 
come  this  way,  and  the  actual  trade  of  the  Venta  is 
small.  Some  day,  a  German  doctor  will  start  a  nerve- 
healing  establishment  here,  with  a  table  d'hote  at  six 
o'clock,  and  every  opportunity  for  practising  the 
minor  virtues — and  the  Valley  of  Repose  will  be  the 
Valley  of  Repose  no  longer. 

"Ah !  It  is  a  good  omelette,"  said  the  host  of  the 
Venta,  as  Miss  Cheyne  took  up  her  fork.  "Though 
I  have  not  always  been  a  cook,  nor  yet  an  inn- 
keeper." 

He  raised  one  finger,  shook  it  from  side  to  side  in 
an  emphatic  negation,  and  laughed.  Then  he  turned 
suddenly,  and  looked  down  into  the  valley  with  a 
grave  face  and  almost  a  sigh. 

65 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

The  man  had  a  history  it  aj)peared — and,  rarer 
still,  was  willing  to  tell  it. 

She  knew  too  much  of  the  Spanish  race,  or  per- 
haps of  all  men,  to  ask  questions. 

"Yes,"  she  said  pleasantly,  "it  is  a  good  omelette." 

And  the  man  turned  sharply  and  looked  at  her  as 
if  she  had  said  something  startling.  She  noticed  his 
action,  and  showed  surprise. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  said  with  a  laugh,  "only  a 
coincidence — a  mere  accident.  It  is  said  by  the 
peasants  that  the  mind  of  a  friend  has  wings.  Per- 
haps it  is  so.  As  I  looked  down  into  the  valley  I  was 
thinking  of  a  man — a  friend.  Yes — name  of  a  Saint 
— he  was  a  friend  of  mine,  although  a  gentleman ! 
Educated  ?  Yes,  many  languages,  and  Latin.  And 
I — what  am  I  ?  You  see,  Senorita,  a  peasant,  who 
wears  no  coat." 

And  he  laughed  heartily,  only  to  change  again  sud- 
denly to  gravity. 

"And  as  I  looked  down  into  the  valley  I  was 
thinking  of  my  friend — and,  believe  me,  you  spoke  at 
that  moment  with  something  in  your  voice — in  your 
manner — Avho  knows  ? — which  was  like  the  voice  and 
manner  of  my  friend.  Perhaps,  Senorita,  the  peas- 
ants are  right,  and  the  mind  of  my  friend,  having 
wings,  flew  to  us  at  that  moment." 

The  lady  laughed,  and  said  that  it  might  be  so. 

"It  is  not  that  you  are  English,"  the  innkeeper 

66 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

continued,  with  easy  volubility.  "For  I  know  you 
belong  to  no  other  nation.  I  said  so  to  myself  the 
moment  I  saw  you,  riding  up  here  on  horseback  alone. 
I  called  upstairs  to  Juanita  that  there  was  an  Eng- 
lish Seiiorita  coming  on  a  horse,  and  Juanita  replied 
with  a  malediction,  that  I  should  raise  my  voice  when 
the  nino  was  asleep.  She  said  that  if  it  was  the  Pope 
of  Rome  who  came  on  a  horse  he  must  not  wake  the 
child.  ^No,'  I  answered,  'but  he  would  have  to  go 
upstairs  to  see  it;'  and  Juanita  did  not  laugh.  She 
sees  no  cause  to  laugh  at  anything  connected  with  the 
nino — oh,  no !  it  is  a  serious  matter." 

He  was  looking  towards  the  house  as  he  spoke. 

"Juanita  is  your  wife  ?"  said  the  Englishwoman. 

"Yes.  We  have  been  married  a  year,  and  I  am 
still  sure  that  she  is  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the 
world.  Is  it  not  wonderful  ?  And  she  will  be  jeal- 
ous if  she  hears  me  talking  all  this  while  with  the 
Seiiorita." 

"You  can  tell  her  that  the  Seiiorita  has  gray  hair," 
said  Miss  Cheyne,  practically. 

"That  may  be,"  said  the  innkeeper,  looking  at  her 
with  his  head  on  one  side,  and  a  gravely  critical  air. 
"But  you  still  have  the  air" — he  shrugged  his  shoul- 
ders, and  spread  out  his  hands — "the  air  that  takes  a 
man's  fancy.    Who  knows  ?" 

Miss  Cheyne,  who  had  dealt  much  with  a  simple 
people,  accustomed  to  the  statement  of  simple  facts  in 

67 


A    SMALL   WORLD 

plain  language,  only  laughed.  There  is  a  certain 
rough  purity  of  thought  which  vanishes  at  the 
advance  of  civilization.  And  cheap  journalism, 
cheap  fiction,  cheap  prudery  have  not  yet  reached 
Spain. 

"I  know  nothing,"  went  on  the  man,  with  a  shrewd, 
upward  nod  of  the  head.  "But  the  Seiiorita  has  a 
lover.  He  may  be  faithless,  he  may  be  absent,  he 
may  be  dead — but  he  is  there — the  God  be  thanked !" 

He  touched  his  broad  chest  in  that  part  where  a 
deadly  experience  told  him  that  the  heart  was  to  be 
found,  and  looked  up  to  Heaven,  all  with  a  change  of 
expression  and  momentary  gravity  quite  incompre- 
hensible to  men  of  northern  breed. 

Miss  Cheyne  laughed  again  without  self-conscious- 
ness. Uneducated  people  have  a  way  of  arriving  at 
once  at  those  matters  that  interest  rich  and  poor 
alike,  which  is  rather  refreshing,  even  to  the  highly 
educated. 

^'But  I,  who  talk  like  a  washerwoman,  forget  that 
I  am  an  innkeeper,"  said  the  man,  with  a  truer  tact 
than  is  often  found  under  fine  linen.  And  he  pro- 
ceeded to  wait  on  her  with  a  grand  air,  as  if  she  were 
a  queen  and  he  a  nobleman. 

"If  Juanita  were  about  it  would  be  different,"  he 
said,  whipping  the  cloth  from  the  table  and  shaking 
the  crumbs  to  the  four  winds.  "And  the  Senorita 
would  be  properly  served.    But — what  will  you  ?  the 

68 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

nino  is  but  a  fortnight  old,  and  I — I  am  new  at  my 
trade.     The  Senorita  takes  coffee  ?" 

Miss  Cheyne  intimated  that  she  did  take  coffee. 

"And  you,  perhaps,  will  take  a  cup  also,"  she 
added,  whereupon  the  man  bowed  in  his  best  manner. 
He  had  that  j)erfect  savoir-faire — a  certain  innate 
gentlemanliness — which  is  the  characteristic  of  all 
Spaniards.  His  manner  indicated  an  appreciation 
of  the  honor,  and  conveyed  at  the  same  time  the  in- 
timation that  he  knew  quite  well  how  to  behave  under 
the  circumstances. 

He  went  into  the  house  from  which — all  the  doors 
and  windows  being  open — came  the  sound  of  his  con- 
versation with  Juanita,  while  he  prepared  the  coffee. 
It  was  quite  a  frank  and  open  conversation,  having 
Miss  Cheyne  for  its  object,  and  stating  that  she  had 
not  only  found  the  omelette  good,  but  had  eaten 
it  all. 

Presently  he  returned  with  the  coffee-pot,  two 
cups,  and  a  small  jug  of  cream  on  a  tray.  He  turned 
the  handle  of  the  coffee-pot  towards  Miss  Cheyne,  and 
conveyed  in  one  inimitable  gesture  that  he  would  take 
his  coffee  from  no  other  hand. 

"The  Senorita  is  staying  in  Palma  V  he  asked, 
pleasantly. 

"Yes." 

"For  pleasure?" 

"IsTo — for  business." 

69 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

The  innkeeper  laughed  gaily  and  deprecatingly,  as 
if  between  persons  of  their  station  business  was  a 
word  only  to  be  mentioned  as  a  sort  of  jest. 

"I  am  the  owner  of  a  small  property  in  the  island 
— over  in  that  direction — towards  Soller.  It  is  held 
on  the  ^rotas'  system  by  a  good  farmer,  who  has  fre- 
quently come  to  see  me  where  I  live  at  Monistrol, 
near  Barcelona.  He  has  often  begged  me  to  come  to 
Majorca  to  see  the  property,  and  now  I  have  come. 
I  am  staying  a  few  days  at  Palma." 

"Farming  is  good  in  Majorca,"  said  the  man, 
shrewdly.  "You  should  receive  a  large  sum  for  your 
share  of  the  harvest.  I,  too,  shall  buy  land  pres- 
ently when  I  see  my  chance,  for  I  have  the  money. 
Ah,  yes :  I  was  not  always  an  innkeeper !" 

He  sipped  his  coffee  pensively. 

"That  reminds  me  again  of  my  friend,"  he  said, 
after  a  pause.  "Wliy  do  I  think  of  him  this  after- 
noon ?    It  is  a  strange  story ;  shall  I  tell  it  ?" 

"I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  it,"  replied  Miss  Cheyne, 
in  her  energetic  way.  She  was  stirring  her  coffee 
slowly  and  thoughtfully. 

"I  knew  him  in  his  own  country — in  America; 
and  then  in  Cuba " 

Miss  Cheyne  ceased  stirring  her  coffee  suddenly, 
as  if  she  had  come  against  some  object  in  the  cup.  A 
keen  observer  might  have  guessed  that  she  had  be- 
come interested  at  that  moment  in  this  idle  tale. 

70 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

"Ah !  You  know  Cuba  ?"  she  said,  indifferently 
interrogative. 

"If  I  know  Cuba  ?"  he  laughed,  and  spread  out  his 
hands  in  mute  appeal  to  the  gods.  "If  I  know  Cuba ! 
When  Cuba  is  an  independent  republic,  Seiiorita — 
when  the  history  of  all  this  trouble  comes  to  be  writ- 
ten, you  will  find  two  names  mentioned  in  its  pages. 
The  one  name  is  Antonio.  When  you  are  an  old 
woman,  Senorita,  you  can  tell  your  children — or  per- 
haps your  grandchildren,  if  the  good  God  is  kind  to 
you — that  you  once  knew  Antonio,  and  took  a  cup  of 
coffee  with  him.  But  you  must  not  say  it  now — 
never — never.  And  the  other  name  is  Mateo.  You 
can  tell  your  children,  Senorita,  when  your  hair  is 
white,  that  you  once  spoke  to  a  man  who  was  a  friend 
to  this  Mateo." 

He  finished  with  his  gay  laugh,  as  if  he  were  fully 
alive  to  his  own  fine  conceit,  and  begged  indul- 
gence. 

"He  has  been  here — sitting  where  you  sit  now," 
he  continued,  with  impressive  gravity.  "He  came  to 
me :  'Antonio,'  he  said,  'there  are  five  thoasand  men 
out  there  who  want  you.'  'Amigo,'  replied  I,  'there 
is  one  woman  here  who  does  the  same' — and  I  bowed, 
and  Mateo  went  away  without  me.  I  thought  he  had 
gone  back  there  to  conduct  affairs — to  fight  in  his 
careless  way,  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek,  as  it  were. 
He  did  all  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek — that  queer 

Yl 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

Mateo.  And  then  came  a  message  from  Barcelona, 
saying  that  he  wanted  me.  Name  of  a  dog,  I  went 
— for  his  letter  was  unmistakable.  He  had,  it  ap- 
peared, had  an  accident.  I  found  him  with  his  arm 
in  a  sling.  He  had  been  cared  for  in  the  house  of  an 
Englishwoman — so  much  he  told — but  I  guessed 
more.  This  Englishwoman — well,  he  said  so  little 
about  her,  that  I  could  only  conclude  one  thing.  You 
know,  Seiiorita — when  a  man  will  not  talk  of  a 
woman — well,  it  assuredly  means  something.  But 
there  was,  it  appears,  another  man — this  man,  I 
grind  my  teeth  to  tell  you  of  it — he  was  a  priest.  One 
Bernaldez,  whom  we  had  both  known  in  Cuba.  He 
had,  it  appears,  come  over  to  Spain  in  ordinary  dress ; 
for  he  was  too  well  known  to  travel  as  Bemaldez,  the 
priest.  He  was  a  fine  man — so  much  I  will  say  for 
him.  The  Englishwoman  was,  no  doubt,  beautiful. 
Bernaldez  met  her.  She  did  not  know  that  he  was  a 
priest." 

Antonio  paused,  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  spread 
out  his  arms. 

"The  devil  did  the  rest,  Seiiorita.  And  she? 
Did  she  care  for  him  ?  Ah — one  never  knows  with 
women." 

"Perhaps  they  do  not  always  know  themselves," 
suggested  Miss  Cheyne,  without  meeting  her  com- 
panion's eyes. 

"Perhaps  that  is  so,  Seiiorita.  At  all  events,  Mateo 

72 


A    SMALL    WOELD 

went  to  these  two,  when  they  were  together.  Mateo 
was  always  quick  and  very  cahn.  He  faced  Bernal- 
doz,  and  he  tokl  the  woman.  Then  he  left  them. 
And  I  found  him  in  Barcelona,  two  days  afterwards, 
living  at  the  Hotel  of  the  Four  illations,  like  one  in 
his  sleep.  'If  Bernaldez  wants  me,'  he  said,  'he 
knows  where  to  find  me.'  And  the  next  day  Bernal- 
dez came  to  us,  where  we  sat  in  front  of  the  Cafe 
of  the  Licco  on  the  Rambla.  'Mateo,'  he  said,  'you 
will  have  to  fight  me.'  And  Mateo  nodded  his  head. 
'With  the  revolver.'  Mateo  looked  up  with  his  dry 
smile.  'I  will  take  you  at  that  game,'  he  said,  'for 
nuts' — in  the  American  fashion,  Seiiorita — one  of 
their  strange  sad  jokes.  Then  Bernaldez  sat  do^vn — 
his  eyes  were  hollow ;  he  spoke  like  one  who  has  been 
down  to  the  bottom  of  misery.  'I  know  a  place,'  he 
said,  'that  will  suit  our  purpose.  It  is  among  the 
mountains,  on  the  borders  of  Andorra.  You  take  the 
train  from  Barcelona  to  Berga,  the  diligencia  from 
Berga  to  Orgaiia.  Between  Orgaiia  and  La  Seo  de 
Urgel  is  a  bridge  called  La  Puente  del  Diabolo.  I 
will  meet  you  at  this  bridge  on  foot  on  Thursday 
morning  at  nine  o'clock.  We  can  walk  up  into  the 
mountains  together.  I  shall  bring  a  small  travelling 
clock  with  me.  We  shall  stand  it  on  the  ground  be- 
tween us,  and  when  it  strikes,  we  fire.'  " 

Antonio  had,  in  the  heat  of  his  narrative,  leant 
forward  across  the  table.     With  quick  gestures  he 

73 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

described  the  whole  scene,  so  that  Miss  Cheyne  could 
see  it  as  it  had  passed  before  his  eyes. 

"There  is  a  madness,  Seiiorita/'  he  went  on, 
"which  shows  itself  by  a  thirst  for  blood.  I  looked  at 
Bernaldez.  He  was  sane  enough,  but  I  think  the 
man's  heart  was  broken,  'It  is  well,'  said  Mateo;  'I 
am  your  man — at  the  Puente  del  Diabolo  at  nine 
o'clock  on  Thursday  morning.'  And  mind  you,  Se- 
iiorita, these  were  not  Italians  or  Greeks — they  were 
a  Spaniard  and  an  American — men  who  mean  what 
they  say,  whether  it  be  pleasant  or  the  reverse." 

Miss  Cheyne  was  interested  enough  now.  She  sat, 
leaning  one  arm  on  the  table,  and  her  chin  in  the  palm 
of  her  hand.  She  held  her  lip  with  her  teeth,  and 
watched  the  man's  quick  expressive  face. 

"We  were  there  at  nine  o'clock,"  he  went  on,  "that 
Mateo,  with  his  arm  in  a  sling.  We  had  passed  the 
night  at  the  hotel  of  the  Libertad  at  Organa,  where  we 
both  slept  well  enough.  ^\^iat  will  you  ? — when  one 
is  no  longer  young,  the  pulse  is  slow.  The  morning 
mist  had  descended  the  mountain-side,  the  air  was 
cold.  There  at  the  Puente,  leaning  against  the  wall, 
cloaked  and  quiet — was  Bernaldez.  'Ah !'  he  said  to 
me,  'you  have  come,  too  V  'Yes,  Amigo,'  I  answered, 
'but  I  do  not  give  the  word  for  two  friends  to  let  go  at 
each  other.  Your  little  clock  can  do  that.'  He  nodded 
and  said  nothing.  Seiiorita,  I  was  sorry  for  the  man. 
Who  was  I  that  I  should  judge  ?  You  remember,  you, 

74 


A    SMALL    WOKLD 

who  read  your  Bible,  the  writing  on  the  ground? 
Bernaldez  led  the  way,  and  we  climbed  up  into  the 
mountains  in  the  morning  mist.  Somewhere  above 
us  there  was  a  little  waterfall  singing  its  eternal  song. 
In  the  cloud,  where  we  could  not  see  him,  a  curlew 
hung  on  his  heavy  wings,  and  gave  forth  his  low 
warning  whistle.  'Have  a  care — have  a  care,'  he 
seemed  to  cry.  Presently  Bernaldez  stopped,  and 
looked  around  him.  It  was  a  desolate  place.  'This 
will  do,'  he  said.  'And  he  who  drops  may  be  left 
here.  The  other  may  turn  on  his  heel,  say  "A  Dios," 
and  go  in  safety.'  'Yes,'  answered  Mateo.  'This 
will  do  as  well  as  any  other  place.'  Bernaldez  looked 
at  him,  with  a  laugh.  'Ah,'  he  said,  'you  think  that 
you  are  sure  to  kill  me — but  I  shall,  at  all  events, 
have  a  shot  for  my  money.  Who  knows  ?  I  may  kill 
you.'  'That  is  quite  possible,'  answered  Mateo.  Ber- 
naldez threw  back  his  cloak.  He  carried  the  little 
travelling  clock  in  one  hand — a  gilt  thing  made  in 
Paris.  'We  will  stand  it  here,'  he  said,  'on  a  rock 
between  us.'  We  were  in  a  little  hollow  far  up  the 
mountain  side,  and  the  mist  wrapped  us  round  like 
a  cloak.  I  know  these  mountains,  Sehorita,  for  it 
was  here  that  the  fiercest  of  the  fighting  in  the  last 
Carlist  War  took  place.  There  are  many  dead  up 
there  even  now,  who  have  never  been  found.  I  also 
was  in  that  trouble — ah,  no,  I  was  not  always  an 
innkeeper !" 

75 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

"Go  on  with  your  story,"  said  Miss  Cheyne,  curtly, 
and  closed  her  teeth  over  her  lower  lip  again. 

"'We  stood  there,  then,  and  watched  Bernaldez 
take  the  clock  from  its  case.  He  held  it  to  his  ear 
to  make  sure  that  it  was  going.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
it  ticked  as  loud  up  there  as  a  clock  ticks  in  a  room 
at  night.  Bernaldez  set  forward  the  hands  till  they 
stood  at  five  minutes  to  eleven.  'The  eleventh  hour,' 
said  Mateo,  with  his  dry  laugh.  Bernaldez  set  the 
clock  do%vn  again.  He  took  off  his  hat  and  threw  it 
down  to  mark  the  ground.  'Ten  paces,'  he  said,  and, 
turning  on  his  heel,  counted  aloud.  I  looked  half- 
instinctively  at  his  bared  head.  The  tonsure  was  still 
visible  to  any  who  sought  it ;  for  it  was  but  half -grown 
over.  Mateo  counted  his  steps  and  then  turned.  The 
clock  gave  a  little  tick,  as  such  clocks  do,  four  minutes 
before  they  strike.  It  seemed  to  me  to  hurry  its  pace 
as  we  three  stood  listening  in  that  silence.  We  could 
hear  the  whisper  of  the  clouds  as  they  hurried 
through  the  mountains.  The  clock  gave  another  click, 
and  the  two  men  raised  their  pistols  of  a  similar  pat- 
tern. The  little  gong  rang  out,  and  immediately  after 
two  shots,  one  following  the  other.  Bernaldez  had 
fired  first.  Mateo — a  man  with  a  reputation  to  care 
for — took  a  moment  longer  for  his  aim.  I  heard 
Bernaldez's  bullet  sing  past  his  ear  like  a  mosquito. 
Bernaldez  fell  forward — thus,  on  his  arm — and  the 
clock  had  not  ceased  striking  when  we  stood  over 

76 


A    SMALL    WOELD 

him;     and    Mateo    had    held    the     pistol    in    his 
left  hand." 

The  narrator  finished  abruptly  with  a  quick  ges- 
ture. All  through  his  story  he  had  added  a  vividness 
to  his  description  by  quick  movements  of  the  hand 
and  head,  by  his  flashing  eyes,  his  southern  fire,  so 
that  his  hearer  could  see  the  scene  as  he  had  seen  it ; 
could  feel  the  stillness  of  the  mountains ;  could  hear 
the  whisper  of  the  clouds;  could  see  the  two  men 
facing  each  other  in  the  mist.  With  a  gesture  he 
showed  her  how  Bernaldez  lay,  on  his  face  on  the  wet 
stones,  with  a  half -concealed  tonsure,  turned  towards 
heaven  in  mute  appeal,  awaiting  the  last  great  hear- 
ing of  his  case  in  that  Court  where  there  is  no  appeal. 

"And  there  we  left  him,  Senorita,"  added  Antonio, 
shortly. 

He  rose,  walked  away  from  her  to  the  edge  of  the 
great  slope,  and  stood  looking  down  into  the  valley 
that  lay  shimmering  below  him.  After  a  time  he 
came  back  slowly.  In  his  simplicity  he  was  not 
ashamed  of  dimmed  eyes. 

"I  tell  you  this,  Senorita,"  he  said  with  a  laugh, 
"because  you  are  an  Englishwoman,  and  because  this 
Mateo  was  my  friend.  He  is  an  American.  His 
name  is  WTiittaker — ^Matthew  S.  Wliittaker.  And 
this  afternoon  I  was  reminded  of  him;  I  know  not 
why.  Perhaps  it  was  something  that  I  said  myself,  or 
some  gesture  that  I  made,  which  I  had  caught  from 

77 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

him.  If  one  thinks  much  about  a  person,  one  may 
catch  his  gestures  or  his  manner :  is  it  not  so  ?  And 
then  you  reminded  me  of  him  a  second  time.  That 
was  strange." 

"Yes,"  said  Miss  Cheyne,  thoughtfully ;  "that  was 
strange." 

'*He  went  to  Cuba  again  at  once,  Seiiorita ;  that 
was  a  year  ago.  And  I  have  never  heard  from  him. 
If,  as  the  peasants  say,  the  mind  of  a  friend  has  wings, 
perhaps  Mateo's  mind  has  flown  on  to  tell  me  that 
he  is  coming.    He  said  he  would  come  back." 

"Why  was  he  coming  back  ?"  asked  Miss  Cheyne. 

"I  do  not  know,  Seiiorita," 

Miss  Cheyne  had  risen,  and  was  making  ready  to 
depart.  Her  gloves  and  riding  whip  lay  on  the  table. 
The  afternoon  was  far  spent,  and  already  the  shadows 
were  lengthening  on  the  mountain-side.  She  paid  the 
trifling  account,  Antonio  taking  the  money  with  such 
a  deep  bow  that  the  smallness  of  the  coin  was  quite 
atoned  for.    He  brought  her  horse  from  the  stable. 

"The  horse  and  the  Seiiorita  are  both  tired,"  he 
said,  with  his  pleasant  laugh.  And,  indeed,  Miss 
Cheyne  looked  suddenly  weary.  "It  is  not  right  that 
you  should  go  by  the  mountain  path,"  he  added.  "It 
is  so  easy  to  lose  the  way.  Besides,  a  lady  alone — it 
is  not  done  in  Spain." 

"]^o,  but  in  England  women  are  learning  to  take 
care  of  themselves,"  laughed  Miss  Cheque. 

78 


A    SMALL    WORLD 

She  placed  her  foot  within  his  curved  hands,  and 
he  lifted  her  to  the  saddle.  All  her  movements  were 
easy  and  independent.  It  seemed  that  she  only  stated 
a  fact,  and  the  man  shook  his  head  forebodingly.  He 
belonged  to  a  country  which  in  some  ways  is  a  century 
behind  England  and  America.  She  nodded  a  fare- 
well, and  turned  the  horse's  head  towards  the  moun- 
tain path. 

"I  shall  find  my  way,"  she  said.     ''Never  fear." 

''Only  by  good  fortune,"  he  answered,  with  a 
shake  of  the  head. 

The  sun  had  almost  set  when  she  reached  Palma. 
At  the  hotel  her  lawyer,  who  had  made  the  voyage 
from  Barcelona  with  her,  awaited  her  with  im- 
patience, while  her  maid  leant  idly  from  the  window. 
In  the  evening  she  went  abroad  again,  alone,  in  her 
independent  way.  She  walked  slowly  on  the  Cathe- 
dral terrace,  where  priests  lingered,  and  a  few 
soldiers  from  the  neighboring  barracks  smoked  a 
leisurely  cigarette.  All  turned  at  intervals,  and 
looked  in  the  same  direction — namely,  towards  the 
west,  where  the  daylight  yet  lingered  in  the  sky.  The 
moon,  huge  and  yellow,  was  rising  over  the  moun- 
tains, above  Manacor,  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  island. 
One  by  one  the  idlers  dropped  away,  moving  with 
leisurely  steps  towards  the  town.  In  very  idleness 
Miss  Cheyne  followed  them.  She  knew  that  they 
were  going  to  the  harbor  in  anticipation  of  the  arrival 

79 


A    SMALL   WOELD 

of  the  Barcelona  steamer.  She  was  on  the  pier  with 
the  others,  when  the  boat  came  alongside.  The 
passengers  trooped  off,  waving  salutations  to  their 
friends.  One  among  them,  a  small-made  frail  man, 
detached  himself  from  the  crowd,  and  made  his  way 
towards  Miss  Cheyne,  as  if  this  meeting  had  been 
prearranged — and  who  shall  say  that  it  was  not? — 
by  the  dim  decrees  of  Fate. 


80 


IN   A   CROOKED   WAY 


IV 

m  A  CKOOKED  WAY 

"  And  let  the  counsel  of  thine  own  heart  stand." 

It  was  almost  dark,  and  the  Walkham  River  is 
mucli  overhung  in  the  parts  that  lie  between  Horra- 
bridge  and  the  old  brickworks. 

In  the  bed  of  the  river  a  man  stumbled  heavily 
along,  trusting  more  to  his  knowledge  of  the  river 
than  to  his  eyesight.  He  was  fishing  dexterously 
with  flies  that  were  almost  white — flies  which  seemed 
to  suit  admirably  the  taste  of  those  small  brown  trout 
which  never  have  the  sense  to  leave  alone  the  fare 
provided  for  their  larger  white  brethren. 

Suddenly  he  hooked  a  larger  fish,  and,  not  daring 
to  step  back  beneath  the  overhanging  oak,  he  pro- 
ceeded to  tire  his  fish  out  in  the  deep  water.  In  ten 
minutes  he  brought  it  to  the  landing-net,  and  as  he 
turned  to  open  his  creel,  his  heart  leapt  in  his  breast. 
A  man  was  standing  in  the  water  not  two  feet  be- 
hind him. 

"Holloa,"  he  gasped. 

"I  won't  insult  you  by  telling  you  not  to  be 
frightened,"  said  the  voice  of  a  gentleman.   There 

83 


IN    A    CROOKED    WAY 

was  no  mistaking  it.  The  speaker  stood  quite  still, 
with  the  wateF  bubbling  round  his  legs.  He  was 
hatless,  and  his  hair  was  cut  quite  short. 

A  thought  flashed  across  the  fisherman's  slow 
brain.  Like  the  rest  of  his  craft,  he  was  slower  of 
mind  than  of  hand. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  divining  his  thoughts,  "I'm 
from  Dartmoor.  You  probably  heard  of  my  escape 
two  days  ago." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  other,  quietly,  while  he  wound 
in  his  line.     "I  heard  of  it." 

"And  where  do  they  say  I  am  ?" 

"Oh,  the  police  have  got  a  clue — as  usual,"  re- 
plied the  fisherman. 

The  escaped  convict  laughed  bitterly,  but  the  laugh 
broke  off  into  a  sickening  cackle. 

"I've  been  in  those  brickworks,"  he  said,  "all  the 
time,  meditating  murder.  I  stole  a  loaf  from  a 
baker's  cart;  but  man  cannot  live  by  bread  alone; 
ah!     Ha!  ha!" 

The  fisherman  held  out  his  flask,  which  the  other 
took,  and  opened  the  somewhat  uncommon  silver  top 
with  ease  bred  of  knowledge. 

lie  poured  himself  out  a  full  glass  and  drank 
it  off. 

"I  haven't  had  that  taste  in  my  mouth  for  four 
years,"  he  said,  returning  the  flask.  "And  you  are 
guilty  of  felony!" 

84 


IN    A    CKOOKED    WAY 

The  fisherman  probably  knew  this,  for  he  merely 
laughed. 

"Do  you  know  Prince  Town  ?"  the  convict  asked 
abruptly. 

The  other  nodded,  glancing  in  the  direction  of  the 
rising  moor. 

"And  you've  read  the  rules  on  the  gate  ?  Parcere 
subjedis,  cut  in  the  stone  over  the  top.    Good  God !" 

The  fisherman  nodded  again. 

"The  question  is,"  said  the  convict,  after  a  pause, 
during  which  they  had  waded  back  to  the  bank, 
"whether  you  are  going  to  help  me  or  not  ?  Heavens ! 
I  nearly  killed  you  while  you  were  playing  that  fish  !" 

"Ya-as,"  drawled  the  fisherman.  "I  take  it  that 
you  must  have  been  tempted.  I  never  heard  you, 
owing  to  the  rush  of  the  water." 

They  were  both  big  men,  and  the  convict  stared 
curiously  into  the  long,  clean-shaven  face  of  this  calm 
speaker.  A  smile  actually  flickered  for  a  moment  m 
his  desperate  eyes. 

"What  I  want,"  he  said,  "is  your  mackintosh, 
your  waders,  and  your  hat — also  your  rod-case  with 
a  long  stick  in  it.  The  handle  of  your  landing-net 
Avill  do.     Where  do  you  come  from  ?" 

"Plymouth.  I  am  going  back  by  the  seven-thirty 
from  Horrabridge." 

"With  a  return  ticket  ?" 

"Yes." 

85 


m   A    CKOOKED    WAY 

"I  should  like  that  also." 

The  fisherman  was  slowly  disjointing  his  rod. 

"Suppose  I  told  you  to  come  and  take  'em?"  he 
said,  with  the  drawl  again. 

The  convict  looked  him  up  and  down  with  a  cer- 
tain air  of  competent  criticism. 

"Then  there  would  be  a  very  pretty  fight,"  he  said, 
with  a  laugh,  which  he  checked  when  he  detected  the 
savor  of  the  prison-yard  that  was  in  it. 

"We  haven't  time  for  the  fight,"  said  the  fisher- 
man. 

And  there  came  a  hot  gasp  of  excitement  from  the 
convict's  lips.     His  stake  was  a  very  large  one. 

In  the  same  slow,  reflective  manner,  the  fisherman 
unbuttoned  the  straps  of  his  waders  at  the  thigh,  and 
sat  down  to  unlace  his  brogues. 

"Here,"  he  said,  "pull  'em  off  for  me.  They're  so 
damnably  sopped." 

He  held  up  his  leg,  and  the  convict  pulled  off  the 
wet  fishing-stockings  with  some  technical  skill. 

He  drew  them  on  over  his  own  stockinged  legs, 
and  the  fisherman  kicked  the  brogues  towards  him. 
In  exchange  the  convict  handed  him  his  own  shoes. 

"Am  I  to  wear  these  ?"  the  fisherman  asked,  with 
something  in  his  voice  that  might  have  been  amuse- 
ment. 

"Yes;  they're  a  little  out  of  shape,  I'm  afraid. 
The  Queen  is  no  judge  of  a  shoe." 

86 


IN"   A    CROOKED   WAY 

"I  guess  not!"  answered  the  other,  lacing. 

There  was  a  little  silence. 

^'I  suppose,"  said  the  convict,  with  a  curious  eager- 
ness, "that  you  have  seen  a  bit  of  the  world  ?" 

"Here  and  there,"  answered  the  other,  searching 
for  the  return  half  of  his  ticket. 

"Should  you  think,  now,  that  a  girl  would  wait 
four  years  for  a  chap  who,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
was  not  worth  waiting  for  ?" 

The  fisherman,  not  being  an  absolute  fool,  knew 
that  there  was  only  one  answer  to  give.  But  he  was 
a  kind-hearted  man,  so  he  told  a  lie.  There  was 
something  about  this  convict  that  made  him  do  it. 

"Yes;  I  should  think  she  would.  Girls  are  not 
always  rational,   I  guess." 

The  other  said  nothing.  He  took  the  mackintosh- 
coat  and  the  creel  and  the  rod-case  without  a  word — 
even  of  thanks.  His  manners  were  brisker,  as  if  the 
angler's  lie  had  done  him  good.  The  change  of  cos- 
tume was  now  complete,  and  the  convict  would  pass 
anywhere  for  an  innocent  disciple  of  Izaak  Walton. 

For  a  moment  they  stood  thus,  looking  at  each 
other.     Then  the  convict  spoke. 

"Can  you  lend  me  a  fiver  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  yes." 

Carelessly  opening  his  purse,  and  displaying  a 
good  number  of  bank-notes,  he  passed  one  to  the 
unsteady  hand  held  out. 

87 


m   A    CROOKED    WAY 

"Want  any  more  ?"  he  asked,  with  a  queer  laugh. 

"I'll  take  another  if  yon  can  spare  it." 

A  second  note  passed  from  hand  to  hand. 

"Thanks,"  said  the  convict.  "Now  tell  me  your 
name  and  address ;  I  shall  want  to  send  these  things 
back  to  you  if — if  I  have  any  luck." 

And  the  effort  to  steady  his  voice  was  quite 
apparent. 

"Caleb  S.  Harkness,  United  States'  frigate 
Bruiser,  now  lying  at  Plymouth,"  replied  the  other, 
tersely. 

"Ah!  you  are  an  American?" 

"That  is  why  I  don't  care  a  d n  for  your  laws." 

"Mr.  Harkness — or  what?" 

"I'm  her  captain,"  he  replied  modestly. 

They  shook  hands  and  parted. 

It  was  only  as  he  plodded  along  the  Tavistock 
Road,  limping  in  the  regulation  shoes,  that  the 
American  remembered  that  he  had  quite  omitted  to 
ask  the  convict  any  questions.  He  had  parted  with 
his  mackintosh,  and  it  was  pouring.  Tavistock  was 
two  miles  off,  and  he  had  no  notion  what  trains  there 
were  to  Plymouth.  Yet  he  regretted  nothing,  and 
at  times  a  queer  smile  flitted  over  his  countenance. 
He  was  a  man  holding  very  decided  views  of  his  own 
upon  most  subjects,  and  no  one  suspected  him  of  it, 
because  he  never  sought  to  force  them  upon  others. 
What  he  loved  above  all  in  men  was  that  species  of 

88 


IN   A    CROOKED    WAY 

audacious  and  gentlemanly  coolness  which  is  found 
in  greater  perfection  in  the  ranks  of  the  British  aris- 
tocracy than  anywhere  else  in  the  world. 

He  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  be  afraid  of  any 
one,  or  two,  or  three  men — he  had  never,  for  a  mo- 
ment, thought  of  fearing  the  fellow  who  had  gone 
off  with  his  mackintosh,  his  waders,  and  his  two  five- 
pound  notes.  We  all  try  to  be  our  ideal,  and  Caleb 
S.  Harkness  prided  himself  on  being  the  coolest  man 
in  the  two  hemispheres.  He  had  met  a  cooler,  and 
rather  than  acknowledge  his  inferiority  he  had  parted 
with  the  valuables  above  mentioned,  with  no  other 
guarantee  of  their  safe  return  than  a  gentlemanly 
inflection  of  voice. 

Two  days  later  he  received  his  waders,  mackintosh, 
and  brogues ;  also  a  new  fishing-rod  of  the  very  best 
quality  made  in  England,  and  two  five-pound  notes. 

America  loves  to  show  her  appreciation  of  her 
great  sons,  but  she  does  not  always  do  it  wisely  when 
she  begins  to  cast  honors  about.  If  England  showed 
the  same  appreciation,  some  of  us  would  not  be  so 
cruelly  industrious  with  our  pens;  but  that  is  the 
affair  of  the  British  public,  who  suffer  most. 

Caleb  S.  Harkness  was  bound  to  get  on.  Firstly, 
because  his  audacity  was  unrivalled,  and  secondly, 
he  knew  it  was  wise  to  be  audacious. 

In  due  course  he  rose  as  high  as  he  conveniently 

89 


m   A    CROOKED    WAY 

could  in  the  !N^avj  active,  and  turned  liis  attention  to 
the  !Navy  passive,  which  latter  means  a  nice  little 
house  in  Washington,  and  the  open  arms  of  the  best 
society  in  that  enlightened  city.  Here  also  he  got 
on,  because  men  were  even  more  impressed  by  his 
audacity  than  the  sea  had  been.  Also  he  developed 
a  new  talent.  He  found  within  himself  an  immense 
capacity  for  making  others  appear  ridiculous,  and 
there  is  no  man  in  the  world  so  sensitive  as  your 
American  senator. 

Thus  in  six  years  time  we  find  Caleb  S.  Harkness 
moving,  not  in  the  bed  of  an  English  trout-stream, 
but  in  the  lap  of  W^ashingtonian  luxury.  It  was  a 
great  night  in  the  Government  city,  for  England  had 
sent  one  of  her  brightest  stars  to  meet  the  luminaries 
of  the  United  States  in  peaceful  arbitration.  The 
British  Plenipotentiary  had  not  yet  been  seen  of  the 
multitude — but  he  was  the  eldest  son  of  a  British 
Earl,  and  had  a  title  of  his  own.  That  was  enough 
for  Washington,  with  some  to  spare  for  Boston  and 
New  York.  Also  he  had  proved  himself  equal  to 
two  American  statesmen  and  their  respective  secre- 
taries. He  was,  therefore,  held  in  the  highest  esteem 
by  all  the  political  parties  except  that  to  which  the 
worsted  statesmen  belonged. 

The  President's  levee  was  better  attended  than 
usual ;  that  is  to  say,  there  was  not  even  room  on  the 
stairs,  and  America's  first-bom,  as  per  election,  had 

90 


IN   A    CEOOKED    WAY 

long  ago  lost  all  feeling  in  the  digits  of  his  right 
hand. 

Caleb  S.  Harkness  was  moving  about  in  the  quieter 
rooms,  awaiting  the  great  crush,  when  a  lady  and  a 
man  entered  and  looked  around  them  with  some 
amusement. 

"Lord!"  ejaculated  Admiral  Harkness,  when  his 
slow  and  mournful  eyes  rested  on  the  lady.  The 
exclamation,  if  profane,  was  justified,  for  it  is  prob- 
able that  the  American  had  never  before  set  eyes  on 
such  a  masterpiece  of  the  Creator's  power.  There 
was  in  this  woman's  being — in  her  eyes,  her  face, 
her  every  movement — that  combination  of  nonchal- 
ance and  dignity  which  comes  to  beautiful  and  bright- 
minded  girls  when  they  are  beginning  to  leave  girl- 
hood behind  them.  She  was  moderately  tall,  with 
hair  of  living  brown,  and  deep  blue  eyes  full  of  life 
and  sweetness.  She  was  not  slim,  but  held  herself 
like  a  boy  with  the  strength  that  comes  of  perfect 
proportion.  She  was  one  of  those  women  who  set  a 
soldier  or  a  sailor  thinking  what  manner  of  men  her 
brothers  must  be. 

Caleb  Harkness  observed  all  this  with  the  unob- 
trusive scrutiny  of  his  nation.  He  was  standing  near 
a  curtained  doorway  buttoning  his  glove,  and  some 
one  coming  behind  him  pushed  against  him. 

"Beg  pardon,  Harkness,"  said  a  voice,  and  the 
Chief  Secretary  of  the  English  Legation  patted  him 

91 


m   A    CROOKED    WAY 

on  the  sliovilder.  "Didn't  see  you.  Looking  for  some 
one.  By  George,  what  a  heat !  Ah  !  there  he  is — 
thank  goodness !" 

And  he  went  towards  the  lady  and  man  who  had 
just  entered. 

"Here,  Monty,  you're  wanted  at  once,"  Harkness 
heard  him  say  to  the  youth,  who  appeared  to  he  a  few 
years  younger  than  his  beautiful  companion. 

He  spoke  a  few  words  to  the  lady,  who  replied 
laughingly,  and  the  British  Attache  came  towards 
Harkness. 

"Harkness,"  he  said;  "want  to  introduce  you  to 
Lady  Storrel." 

The  American  followed  with  a  smile  on  his  lean 
face.  He  knew  that  he  was  being  introduced  to  Lady 
Storrel  merely  because  there  happened  to  be  no  one 
else  at  hand  and  her  cavalier  was  wanted  elsewhere. 

"Lady  Storrel,  let  me  present  to  you  Admiral 
Harkness,  the  man,"  he  added,  over  his  shoulder, 
"who  is  going  to  make  the  United  States  the  first 
N^aval  Power  in  the  world." 

And  with  a  good-natured  laugh  the  two  men  went 
off,  speaking  hurriedly  together. 

"Is  that  true?"  asked  the  lady,  smiling  vdth  that 
mixture  of  girlishness  and  English  grand-ladyism, 
which  was  so  new  to  Caleb  S.  Harkness. 

"Quite,"  he  answered ;  "but  I  am  not  going  to  tell 
you  how." 

92 


m   A    CROOKED    WAY 

"No,  please  don't.  Of  course,  you  are  an 
American  ?" 

"Yes;  but  you  need  not  mind  that." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"  she  asked,  looking  at  him 
frankly. 

"I  take  it,"  he  answered,  with  a  twinkle  in  his 
grave  eyes,  which  she  saw,  and  liked  him  for ;  "that 
you  want  some  one  to  listen  to  your  impressions  of 
— all  this.     It  is  rum,  is  it  not  ?" 

She  laughed.     "Yes,"  she  admitted,  "it  is — rum.^' 

In  a  few  minutes  they  had  found  a  seat  beneath 
a  marvellous  stand  of  flowers,  and  she  was  chattering 
away  like  a  school-girl,  while  he  listened,  and  added 
here  and  there  a  keen  comment  or  a  humorous 
suggestion. 

Presently  she  began  talking  of  herself,  and  in 
natural  sequence  of  her  husband,  of  their  home  in 
England,  of  his  career,  and  her  hatred  of  politics. 

"And,"  she  said,  suddenly,  at  the  end  of  it;  "here 
is  my  husband." 

Harkness  followed  the  direction  of  her  glance,  and 
looked  upon  a  man  in  English  Court-dress  coming 
towards  them. 

"Ah !"  he  said,  in  a  peculiar,  dull  voice,  "that  is 
your  husband  ?" 

She  was  smiling  upon  the  man  who  approached, 
beckoning  to  him  to  come  with  her  eyes,  as  women 
sometimes    do.      She    turned    sharply   upon   Hark- 

93 


m   A    CROOKED    WAY 

ness,  her  attention  caught  by  something  in  his 
voice. 

"Yes?"  she  answered. 

Harkness  had  risen  with  a  clatter  of  his  sword  on 
the  polished  floor,  and  stood  awaiting  the  introduc- 
tion. 

"My  husband — Admiral  Harkness. 

The  men  bowed,  and,  before  they  could  exchange 
a  banal  observation,  the  fair  young  man  who  had 
been  called  away,  came  up. 

"Phew,  this  is  worse  than  Simla,"  he  said ;  then, 
offering  his  arm  to  Lady  Storrel,  "Alice,"  he  con- 
tinued, "I  have  discovered  some  ices,  the  most  lovely 


ices. 


They  moved  away,  the  lady  favoring  Harkness 
with  a  little  nod,  leaving  the  two  tallest  men  in  that 
assembly  facing  each  other. 

When  they  were  gone,  Caleb  S.  Harkness  and  Lord 
Storrel  looked  into  each  other's  eyes. 

"So,"  said  Harkness,  lapsing  suddenly  into  a 
twang,  "she  waited." 

The  other  nodded.  He  raised  his  perfectly  gloved 
hand  to  his  mustache,  which  he  tugged  pensively 
to  either  side. 

"Yes,"  he  answered;  "she  waited." 

Then  he  looked  round  the  room,  and,  seeing  that 
they  were  almost  alone,  he  moved  towards  the  seat 
just  vacated  by  his  wife. 

94 


IN    A    CROOKED    WAY 

"Come  and  sit  down/'  lie  said,  "and  I  will  tell 
yon  a  little  story." 

"Does  she  know  it?"  inquired  Harkness,  when 
they  were  seated. 

"No." 

"Then  I  don't  want  to  hear  it !  You'd  better  keep 
it  to  yourself,  I  reckon." 

The  Englishman  gave  a  little  laugh,  and  lapsed 
into  silence — thinking  abstractedly. 

"I  should  like  to  tell  you  some  of  it  for  my  own 
sake.  I  don't  w\ant  you  to  go  away  thinking — some- 
thing that  is  not  the  fact." 

"I  would  rather  not  have  the  story,"  persisted 
Harkness.  This  American  had  some  strange  notions 
of  a  bygone  virtue  called  chivalry.  "Give  me  a  few 
facts — I  will  string  them  together." 

Lord  Storrel  was  sitting  forward  on  his  low  chair, 
with  his  hands  clasped  between  his  knees.  They  were 
rather  large  hands — suggestive  of  manual  labor. 

"Suppose,"  he  said,  without  looking  round,  "that 
a  man  is  in  a  street  row  in  Dublin,  when  no  one 
knows  he  is  even  in  the  town.  Suppose  the — eh — 
English  side  of  the  question  is  getting  battered,  and 
he  hits  out  and  kills  a  drunken  beast  of  an  Irish  agi- 
tator. Suppose  an  innocent  man  is  accused  of  it  and 
the  right  chap  is  forced  to  come  forward  and  show 
up  under  a  false  name  and  gets  five  years.  Suppose 
he  escapes  after  three  and  a  half,  and  goes  home, 

95 


i:n'  a  crooked  way 

saying  that  he  has  been  in  America,  cattle  ranching 
— having  always  been  a  scapegrace,  and  a  ne'er-do- 
well,  who  never  wrote  home  when  he  had  gone  off 
in  a  huff.  Suppose  he  had  tried  all  this  for  the  sake 
of — a  girl,  and  had  carried  it  through " 

Caleb  Harkness  had  discovered  that  the  identity 
of  the  British  Plenipotentiary  had  become  known  to 
some  of  the  more  curious  of  the  President's  giTcsts, 
who  were  now  mooning  innocently  around  them  as 
they  sat.     He  moved  in  his  chair  as  if  to  rise. 

"Yes — I  can  suppose  all  that,"  he  said. 

The  Englishman's  nerve  was  marvellous.  He  saw 
what  Harkness  had  seen  a  moment  before,  and  over 
his  face  came  the  bland  smile  of  an  intelligent  Eng- 
lishman talking  naval  matters  with  an  American 
admiral. 

"Of  course,"  he  said,  "I  am  at  your  mercy." 

"I  was  at  yours  once;  so  now  we  are  quits,  I 
take  it." 

And  the  two  big  men  rose  and  passed  out  of  the 
room  together. 


96 


THE   TALE   OF  A   SCORPION 


V 

THE  TALE  OF  A  SCOEPIOK 

Spain  is  a  country  where  custom  reigns  supreme. 
The  wonder  of  to-day  is  by  to-morrow  a  matter  of 
indifference. 

The  man  who  came  a  second  time  to  the  Cafe 
Carmona  in  the  Calle  Velasquez  in  Seville  must  have 
known  this;  else  the  politely  surprised  looks,  the 
furtive  glances,  the  whisperings  that  met  his  first 
visit  would  have  sent  him  to  some  other  house  of  mild 
entertainment.  The  truth  was  that  the  Cafe  Car- 
mona was,  and  is  still,  select;  with  that  somewhat 
narrow  distinctiveness  which  is  observed  by  such  as 
have  no  friendly  feelings  towards  the  authorities 
that  be. 

It  is  a  small  cafe,  and  foreigners  had  better  not 
look  for  it.  Yet  this  man  was  a  foreigner — in  fact 
an  Englishman.  He  was  one  of  those  quiet,  unob- 
trusive men,  who  are  taller  than  they  look,  and  more 
important  than  they  care  to  be  considered.  He  could, 
for  instance,  pass  down  the  crowded  Sierpe  of  an 
evening,  without  so  much  as  attracting  a  glance ;  for 
by  a  few  alterations  in  dress,  he  converted  his  out- 

90 


THE    TALE    OF    A    SCORPIOIT 

ward  appearance  into  that  of  a  Spaniard.  He  was 
naturally  dark,  and  for  reasons  of  his  own  he  spared 
the  razor.  His  face  was  brown,  his  features  good, 
and  a  hat  with  a  flat  brim  is  easily  bought.  Thus 
this  man  passed  out  of  his  hotel  door  in  the  evening 
the  facsimile  of  a  dozen  others  walking  in  the  same 
street. 

Moreover,  he  had  no  great  reason  for  doing  this. 
He  preferred,  he  said,  to  pass  unnoticed.  But  at  the 
Foreign  Office  it  was  known  that  no  man  knew  Spain 
as  Cartoner  knew  it.  Some  men  are  so.  They  take 
their  work  seriously.  Cartoner  had  looked  on  the 
map  of  Europe  some  years  before,  for  a  country  little 
known  of  the  multitude,  and  of  which  the  knowledge 
might  prove  to  be  of  value.  His  eye  lighted  on 
Spain ;  and  he  spent  his  next  leave  there,  and  the  next, 
and  so  on. 

Consequently  there  was  no  one  at  the  Foreign 
Office  who  could  hold  a  candle  to  Cartoner  in  matters 
Spanish.  That  is  already  something — to  have  that 
said  of  one.  He  is  a  wise  man  nowadays  who  knows 
something  (however  small  it  be)  better  than  his 
neighbor.  Like  all  his  kind  this  wise  man  kept  his 
knowledge  fresh.  He  was  still  learning — he  was 
studying  at  the  Cafe  Carmona  in  the  little  street  in 
Seville,  called  Velasquez. 

When  he  pushed  the  inner  glass  door  open  and 
lounged  into  the  smoke-filled  room,  the  waiter,  cigar- 

100 


THE    TALE    OF    A    SCORPION 

ette  in  mouth,  nodded  in  a  friendly  way  without  be- 
traying surprise.  One  or  two  old  liahitues  glanced 
at  him,  and  returned  to  the  perusal  of  La  Libertdd 
or  El  Imparcial  without  being  greatly  interested. 
The  stranger  had  come  the  night  before.  He  liked 
the  place — the  coffee  suited  his  taste — "^  Men/'  let 
him  come  again. 

The  waiter  came  forward  without  removing  the 
cigarette  from  his  lips ;  which  was  already  a  step.  It 
placed  this  new-comer  on  a  level  with  the  older  fre- 
quenters of  the  Carmona. 

"Cafe  ?"  he  inquired. 

"Cafe !"  replied  the  stranger,  who  spoke  little. 

He  had  selected  a  little  table  SLduding  rather  iso- 
lated at  one  end  of  the  room,  and  he  sat  with  his  back 
to  the  wall.  The  whole  Cafe  Carmona  lay  before 
him,  and  through  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette  he 
looked  with  quiet  unobtrusive  eyes  studying  . 
studying. 

Presently  an  old  man  entered.  This  little  table 
was  his  by  right  of  precedence.  He  had  been  sitting 
at  it  the  night  before  when  the  Englishman  had 
elected  to  sit  beside  him ;  bowing  as  he  did  so  in 
the  Spanish  manner,  and  clapping  his  hands  in 
the  way  of  Spain,  to  call  the  waiter  when  he  was 
seated. 

It  was  this  evening  the  turn  of  the  old  man  to 
bow,   and  the  Englishman  returned  his  salutation. 

101 


THE    TALE    OF    A    SCORPION^ 

They  sat  some  time  in  silence,  but  when  Cartoner 
passed  the  sugar  the  innate  politeness  of  the  Spaniard 
perceived  the  call  for  conversation. 

"His  Excellency  is  not  of  Seville  ?"  he  said,  with 
a  pleasant  smile  on  his  wrinkled  clean-shaven  face. 

"ISTo ;  I  am  an  Englishman." 

"Oh !" 

The  keen  old  face  hardened  suddenly,  until  the 
features  were  like  the  wrinkles  of  a  walnut ;  and  the 
Sjianiard  drew  himself  up  with  all  the  dignity  of  his 
race. 

The  quiet  eyes  of  Cartoner  of  the  Foreign  Office 
never  left  his  face.  Cartoner  was  surprised;  for  he 
knew  Spain — he  was  aware  that  the  Peninsular  War 
had  not  been  forgotten.  He  had  never,  in  whatsoever 
place  or  situation,  found  it  expedient  to  conceal  his 
nationality. 

The  old  Spaniard  slowly  unfolded  his  cloak,  be- 
traying the  shabbiness  of  its  crimson  plush  lining. 
He  lighted  a  cigarette,  and  then  the  national  sense 
of  politeness  prevailed  against  personal  feeling. 

"His  Excellency  knows  Gibraltar?" 

"I  have  been  there." 

"JSTothing  more  ?" 

"I^othing  more." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  the  old  man,  with  a  grave  bow. 
"T  thought — the  Spanish  of  His  Excellency  misled 


me." 


102 


THE    TALE    OF   A    SCORPION 

The  Englishman  laughed  quietly.  "You  took  me 
for  a  Scorpion/'  he  said.  "I  am  not  that.  I  learnt 
your  langiiage  here  and  in  the  mountains  of  An- 
dalusia." 

"Then,  I  beg  the  pardon  of  His  Excellency." 

Cartoner  made  a  Spanish  gesture  with  his  hand 
and  shoulders,  indicating  that  no  such  pardon  was 
called  for. 

"Like  you,"  he  said,  "I  do  not  love  the  Scorpion." 

The  Spaniard's  eyes  lighted  up  with  a  gleam  which 
was  hardly  pleasant  to  look  upon. 

"I  hate  them,"  he  hissed,  bringing  his  face  close 
to  the  quiet  eyes ;  and  the  Spanish  word  means  more 
than  ours. 

Then  he  threw  himself  back  in  his  chair  with  an 
upward  jerk  of  the  head. 

"I  have  good  reason  to  do  so,"  he  added.  "I  some- 
times wonder  why  I  ever  speak  to  an  Englishman; 
for  they  resemble  you  in  some  things,  these  Scorpions. 
This  one  had  a  fair  mustache,  blue  eyes,  clean-cut 
features,  like  some  of  those  from  the  North.  But  he 
was  not  large,  this  one — the  Rock  does  not  breed  a 
large  race.  They  are  mean  little  men,  with  small 
white  hands  and  women's  feet.  Ah,  God !  how  I  hate 
them  all!" 

The  Englishman  took  a  fresh  cigarette  from  a 
Russia  leather  case,  and  pushed  the  remainder  across 
the  table  for  his  companion  to  help  himself  when  he 

103 


THE    TALE    OF    A    SCORPION 

had  finished  mashing  the  crooked  paper  between 
his  lips. 

"I  know  your  language,"  the  Spaniard  went  on, 
"as  well  almost  as  you  know  mine.  But  I  do  not 
speak  it  now.     It  burns  my  throat — it  hurts." 

Cartoner  lighted  his  cigarette.  He  betrayed  not 
the  smallest  feeling  of  curiosity.  It  was  marvellous 
how  he  had  acquired  the  manner  of  these  self-con- 
tained  Sons  of  the  Peninsula. 

"I  will  tell  it." 

The  Englishman  leant  his  elbow  on  the  table,  and 
his  chin  within  his  hand,  gazing  indifferently  out 
over  the  marble  tables  of  the  Cafe  Carmona.  The 
men  seated  there  interchanged  glances.  They  knew 
from  the  fierce  old  face,  from  the  free  and  dramatic 
gestures,  that  old  Pedro  Roldos  was  already  telling 
his  story  to  the  stranger. 

"Santa  Maria !"  the  old  man  was  saying.  "It  is 
not  a  pleasant  story.  I  lived  at  Algeciras — I  and  my 
little  girl,  Lorenza.  Too  near  the  Rock — too  near 
the  Rock.  You  know  what  we  are  there.  I  had  a 
business — the  contraband,  of  course — and  sometimes 
I  was  absent  for  days  together.  But  Lorenza  was 
a  favorite  with  the  neighbors — good  women  who  had 
known  my  wife  when  she  was  the  beauty  of  St.  Roque 
— just  such  a  girl  as  Lorenza.  And  I  trusted  Lo- 
renza; for  we  are  all  so.  We  trust  and  trust,  and 
yet  we  know  that  love  and  money  will  kill  honesty 

104 


THE    TALE    OF    A    SCOKPIOX 

and  truth  at  any  moment.  These  two  are  sacred — 
more  sacred  than  honesty  or  truth.  Dlavolo!  ^Vliat 
a  fool  I  was.  I  ought  to  have  known  that  Lorenzo 
was  too  pretty  to  be  left  alone — ignorant  as  she  was 
of  the  ways  of  the  world. 

"Then  the  neighbors  began  to  throw  out  hints. 
They  spoke  of  the  English  Caballero,  who  was  so 
fond  of  riding  round  the  Bay,  and  they  hinted  that 
it  was  not  to  see  our  old  town  of  Algeciras  that  he 
came. 

"One  night  I  came  home  after  a  successful  jour- 
ney. I  had  been  as  far  as  Buceita  with  a  train  of 
five  mules — a  clear  run.  When  I  opened  the  door 
Lorenza  was  gone.  Mother  of  God !  gone — gone 
without  a  word !  I  went  and  fetched  Isino — Nino 
whose  father  had  been  my  partner  until  he  was  shot 
by  the  Guardia  Civile  one  night  in  the  mountain  be- 
hind Gaucin.  There  was  no  one  like  Niiio  for  mule 
work  in  the  mountains  or  for  the  handling  of  a  boat 
when  the  west  wind  blew  across  the  Bay.  J^iiio, 
whom  I  wanted  for  a  son-in-law,  having  no  ISTiiio  of 
my  own.  I  told  him.  He  said  nothing,  but  followed 
me  to  the  quay  and  we  got  the  boat  out.  In  half  an 
hour  I  was  at  the  office  of  the  Chief  of  the  Police 
at  Gibraltar.  We  sat  there  all  night,  ISTiho  and  I. 
By  ten  o'clock  the  next  morning  we  knew  that  it 
was  not  one  of  the  English  officers — nor  any  civilian 
living  on  the  Rock.     'It  may,'   said   the   Chief  of 

105 


THE    TALE    OF   A    SCORPION 

Police,  who  seemed  to  know  every  one  in  his  little 
district,  'be  a  passing  stranger  or — or  a  Scorpion. 
We  do  not  know  so  much  about  them.  We  cannot 
penetrate  to  their  houses.'  I  gave  him  a  description 
of  Lorenza ;  he  undertook  to  communicate  with 
England  and  with  the  Spanish  police.  And  Nino 
and  I  went  back  to  our  work.  It  is  thus  with  us 
poor  people.  Our  hearts  break — all  that  is  worth 
having  goes  from  our  lives,  and  the  end  of  it  is  the 
same ;  we  go  back  to  our  work." 

The  old  man  paused.  His  cigarette  had  gone  out 
long  ago.  He  relighted  it  and  smoked  fiercely  in 
silence  for  some  moments.  Cartoner  made  a  sign  to 
the  waiter,  who,  with  the  intelligence  of  his  race, 
brought  a  decanter  of  the  wine  which  he  knew  the 
Spaniard  preferred. 

During  all  the  above  relation  Cartoner  had  never 
uttered  a  syllable.  At  the  more  violent  points  he  had 
given  a  sympathetic  little  nod  of  the  head — nothing 
more. 

''It  was  from  that  moment  that  I  began  to  learn 
the  difference  between  Englishmen  and  Scorpions," 
Pedro  Roldos  went  on.  "Up  to  then  I  had  not 
known  that  it  made  a  difference  being  bom  on  the 
Rock  or  in  England.  I  did  not  know  what  a  Scor- 
pion was — with  all  the  vices  of  England  and  Spain 
in  one  undersized  body.  I  haunted  the  Rock.  I 
learnt  English.     All  to  no  avail.    Lorenza  was  gone. 

106 


THE    TALE    OF   A    SCORPION 

ISTino  never  said  anything — lie  merely  stayed  by  my 
side — Lnt  I  think  that  something — some  fibre  had 
broken  within  him  while  he  held  the  sheet  that  first 
night,  sailing  across  the  Bay  in  a  gale  of  wind. 

"Thus — for  a  year.  Then  came  a  letter  from 
Cadiz.  Lorenza  was  there,  alone  with  her  child. 
Her  husband  had  deserted  her  in  England,  and  she 
had  got  back  to  Cadiz.  We  went  to  her,  Nino  and 
I,  in  our  boat.  We  brought  her  back;  but  she  was 
no  longer  Lorenza.  Our  grief,  our  love  were  nothing 
to  her.  She  was  like  a  woman  hewn  out  of  marble. 
Maria  !  how  I  hated  that  man !  You  cannot  under- 
stand— you  Englishmen.  Though  there  is  something 
in  your  eyes,  sehor,  which  makes  me  think  that  you 
too  could  have  felt  as  I  did. 

"From  Lorenza  I  learnt  his  name,  and  without 
telling  her,  I  went  across  to  Gibraltar.  I  inquired 
and  found  that  he  was  there — there  in  Gibraltar. 
Almost  within  my  grasp — think  of  that!  At  once 
I  was  cunning.  For  we  are  a  simple  people,  except 
when  we  love  or  hate !" 

"Yes,"  said  Cartoner,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 
"I  know." 

"In  an  hour  I  knew  where  he  lived.  His  father 
was  an  English  groom  who  had  set  up  large  breed- 
ing-stables in  Gibraltar,  and  was  a  rich  man.  The 
son  had  the  pretension  of  being  a  gentleman.  He 
had  been  in  England  they  told  me  for  a  year,  buying 

107 


THE    TALE    OF   A    SCORPIOK" 

stud-horses — and — and  something  else.  He  was 
married.  Ah-ha  !  He  had  been  married  three  years 
before  he  ever  saw  Lorenza,  and  the  ceremony  which 
had  been  observed  in  the  English  Church  at  Seville, 
was  a  farce.  My  heart  was  hot  within  me;  hot  with 
the  hatred  for  this  man,  and  I  sat  in  the  Cafe  Uni- 
versal, which  you  know  !  Yes,  you  know  everything. 
I  sat  there  thinking  of  how  I  should  kill  him — slowly, 
taking  my  own  time — talking  to  him  all  the 
while. 

"What  I  had  learnt  was  no  more  than  I  expected. 
The  woman  (his  wife,  it  appeared,  was  the  daughter 
of  a  merchant  at  Gibraltar.  They  were  a  whole  nest 
of  Scorpions.  I  went  back  to  Algeciras  and  said 
nothing  then  to  Lorenza.  The  next  night  I  heard  by 
chance  that  he  and  his  wife  and  children  had  taken 
passage  in  a  steamer  that  sailed  for  England  in  two 
days.  Madre  de  Dio !  he  nearly  slipped  through  our 
fingers.  It  was  not  a  P.  and  O.  ship :  the  passengers 
had  to  take  a  boat  from  the  Old  Mole,  which  is 
always  crowded  with  Algeciras  boats  and  others. 
Niiio  and  I  sailed  across  there  and  waited  among  the 
small  craft.  We  saw  the  woman  (his  wife)  and  the 
children  go  on  board  in  the  afternoon.  In  the  even- 
ing he  came.  I  had  arranged  it  with  the  licensed 
boatmen;  a  few  pesetas  did  that.  Our  boat  was 
nearest  the  steps.  In  the  dim  light  of  the  quay  lamp 
he  noticed  nothing  but  stepped  over  the  gunwale  and 

108 


THE    TALE    OF   A    SCORPION 

mentioned  the  name  of  his  steamer  in  a  quick  way, 
which  he  thought  was  that  of  the  English. 

"Nino  took  the  oars,  and  when  we  were  round  the 
pier  head  we  hoisted  the  sail.     Then  I  spoke. 

"  'I  am  the  father  of  Lorenza  Roldos,'  I  said,  ^and 
that  man  is  Nino,  her  cortejo.  We  are  going  to  kill 
you.' 

"He  started  up,  and  was  about  to  raise  a  cry, 
when  Nino  whipped  out  his  country  knife.  We 
carry  them,  you  know." 

"Yes,"  said  Cartoner,  speaking  for  the  second 
time.     "I  know." 

He  was  watching  the  old  man  now  beneath  the 
shadow  of  his  hand. 

"  'If  you  raise  your  voice,"  I  said,  'Nino  will  put 
his  knife  through  your  throat.' 

"I  saw  him  glance  sideways  at  the  water. 

"  'You  would  have  no  chance  that  way,'  I  said ;  'I 
would  turn  the  boat  on  you,  and  run  you  down.' 

"He  gave  a  sort  of  gasp,  and  I  had  the  happiness 
of  hearing  his  teeth  chatter. 

"  'I  have  money,'  he  said,  in  his  thin,  weak  voice ; 
'not  here,  on  board.' 

"We  said  nothing,  but  I  hauled  in  the  sheet  a 
little,  and  ran  for  the  Europa  light. 

"  'We  are  going  to  kill  you,'  I  said  quietly,  with- 
out hurry. 

"We  landed  just  beyond   the  lighthouse,  where 

109 


THE    TALE    OF   A    SCOEPION 

there  are  no  sentinels,  and  we  made  him  walk  up 
the  Europa  Road  past  the  Governor's  house.  Nino's 
knife  was  within  two  inches  of  his  throat  all  the 
while.  I  think  he  knew  that  his  end  was  near.  You 
know  the  Third  Europa  Advance  Battery  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Cartoner. 

"The  cliff  recedes  there.  There  is  a  drop  of  four 
hundred  metres,  and  then  deep  water." 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"It  was  there,"  hissed  the  old  Spaniard,  with  a 
terrible  gleam  in  his  eyes.  "We  sat  there  on  the  low 
walk,  and  I  spoke  to  him.  As  we  came  along,  Nino 
had  said  to  me  in  our  dialect :  'With  a  man  like  this, 
fear  is  better  than  pain;'  and  I  knew  that  he  was 
right. 

"We  did  not  touch  him  with  our  knives.  We 
merely  spoke  to  him.  And  then  we  began  quietly 
making  our  arrangements.  That  man  died  a  hun- 
dred times  in  the  ten  minutes  wherein  we  ballasted 
him.  We  tied  heavy  stones  upon  his  body — we  filled 
his  pockets  with  smaller  ones.  We  left  his  arms  free, 
but  to  the  palm  of  each  hand  we  bound  a  stone  as 
large  as  my  head.     The  same  to  each  foot. 

"Then  I  said,  ^Lie  down !  Hands  and  legs  straight 
out !  It  is  only  right  that  a  Scorpion  should  die  from 
his  own  rock,  and  taking  some  souvenirs  with 
him.' 

"I    took    his    arms    and    Niiio    his    feet.       We 

110 


THE    TALE    OF   A    SCORPION 

swung  him  three  times,   and  let  him  fly  into  the 
darkness. 

"And  Lorenza  never  forgave  us.  She  told  me  that 
she  loved  him  still.  One  never  comes  to  understand 
a  woman !" 


Ill 


ON   THE   ROCKS 


VI 

ON  THE  ROCKS. 

"For  they  are  blest  that  have  not  much  to  rue — 
That  have  not  oft  misheard  the  prompter's  cue." 

The  gale  was  apparently  at  its  height — that  is  to 
saj,  it  was  blowing  harder  than  it  had  blown  all 
through  the  night.  But  those  whose  business  is  on 
the  great  waters  know  that  a  gale  usually  finishes 
its  wrath  in  a  few  wild  squalls.  "  'Tis  getting  puffy," 
the  sailors  say ;  "  'tis  nearly  over." 

A  man  hurrying  through  the  narrow  main  street 
of  Yport,  was  thrown  against  the  shutters  of  the  little 
baker's  shop  on  the  left-hand  side,  and  stood  there 
gasping  for  breath. 

"Mon  Dieur  he  muttered.     "It's  a  dog's  night." 

And  he  wiped  the  rain  from  his  face.  The  wind, 
which  blew  from  a  wild  north-west,  roared  against 
the  towering  cliffs,  and  from  east  to  west  concen- 
trated itself  funnel-wise  on  the  gap  Avhere  Yport  lies. 
Out  seaward  there  was  a  queer,  ghostly  light  lying 
on  the  face  of  the  waters — the  storm-light — and 
landsmen  rarely  see  it.  For  the  sea  was  beaten  into 
unbroken  foam.     The  man,  who  was  clad  in  oilskins, 

115 


OK    THE    KOCKS 

was  in  the  neck  of  the  funnel.  Overhead,  he  heard 
the  wind  roaring  through  the  pines  far  up  on  the 
slope  of  the  narrow  valley — close  at  hand,  a  con- 
tinuous whistle  told  of  its  passage  across  the  house- 
tops. The  man  steadied  himself  with  his  left  hand. 
He  had  but  one,  and  he  cursed  the  empty  sleeve 
which  flapped  across  his  face. 

"Provided,"  he  muttered,  "that  I  can  waken  that 


cure. 


He  crept  on,  while  the  gale  paused  to  take  breath, 
and  a  moment  later  cowered  in  the  porch  of  a  little 
yellow  house.  He  kicked  the  door  with  his  heel  and 
then  waited,  with  his  ear  to  the  great  keyhole.  Surely 
the  cure  must  have  been  a  good  man  to  sleep  in  such 
a  night.  The  street  had  naturally  been  deserted,  for 
it  was  nearly  three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and  dawn 
could  not  be  far  off. 

"A  one-armed  man  and  a  priest!"  said  the  man 
to  himself,  with  an  expressive  jerk  of  the  head.  And, 
indeed,  all  the  men  of  Yport  had  sailed  for  the  North- 
ern fisheries,  leaving  the  village  to  the  women  and 
children,  and  the  maimed. 

Within  the  house  there  were  sounds  of  some  one 
astir. 

"One  comes!"  cried  a  cheery  voice  belonging 
assuredly  to  some  one  who  was  brave,  for  none  ex- 
pects to  be  called  from  his  bed  to  hear  good  news. 
A  single  bolt  was  drawn  and  the  door  thrown  open. 

116 


ON    THE    EOCKS 

The  cure — a  little  man — stood  back,  shading  the 
candle  with  his  hand. 

"Ah,  Jean  Belfort !  it  is  von." 

"Yes,  I  and  mj  one  arm,"  replied  the  man,  com- 
ing in  and  closing  the  door.  The  rain  dripped  from 
his  oilskins  to  the  clean  floor. 

"All,  bnt  this  is  no  night  to  complain.  Better  be 
on  shore  with  one  arm  than  at  sea  with  two  to-night." 

The  little  cure  looked  at  his  visitor  with  bright 
eyes,  and  a  shake  of  the  head.  A  quick-sjx)ken  man 
this,  with  a  little  square  mouth,  a  soft  heart,  a  keen 
sense  of  humor. 

"^Vhy  have  you  got  me  from  my  bed,  malcontent  ?" 
he  asked. 

"Because  there  are  some  out  there  that  want  your 
prayers,"  replied  Belfort,  jerking  his  head  towards 
the  sea.  He  was  an  unbeliever,  this  maimed  sailor, 
who  read  the  Petit  Journal,  and  talked  too  loudly  in 
the  Cafe  de  la  Marine  of  an  evening.  He  spoke 
mockingly  now. 

"One  can  pray  in  the  morning.  Come  with  me 
while  I  get  on  some  clothes — if  it  is  a  wreck,"  said 
the  priest,  simply. 

The  man  followed  him  to  a  little  bare  room,  of 
which  the  walls  were  decorated  by  two  cheap  sacred 
prints  and  a  crucifix,  such  as  may  be  bought  for  ten 
sous  at  any  fair  on  the  coast. 

"Never  mind  your  hat,"  said  the  priest,  seeing 

117 


OK    THE    ROCKS 

the  man's  fingers  at  the  strings  of  his  sou'wester. 
"Give  me  my  great  boots  from  the  cupboard.  A 
wreck  is  it  ?  The  summer  storms  are  always  the 
worst.     Is  it  a  boat?" 

"Who  knows  ?"  replied  the  man.  "It  is  my  wife 
who  looked  from  the  window  an  hour  ago,  and  saw 
a  light  at  sea  two  points  to  the  east  of  north — a  red 
light  and  then  a  green  and  then  the  masthead  light." 

"A  steamer." 

"So  it  would  appear;  and  now  there  are  no  lights. 
That  is  all." 

The  priest  Avas  dressed,  and  now  pulled  on  a  great 
oilskin  coat.  There  are  men  who  seem  compact  in 
mind  and  body,  impressing  their  fellows  with  a  sense 
of  that  restfulness  which  comes  of  assured  strength. 
This  little  priest  was  one  of  these,  and  the  mental 
impress  that  he  left  upon  all  who  came  in  contact 
with  him  was  to  the  effect  that  there  is  nothing  in  a 
human  life  that  need  appal,  no  sorrow  beyond  the 
reach  of  consolation — no  temptation  too  strong  to 
be  resisted.  The  children  ran  after  him  in  the 
streets,  their  faces  expectant  of  a  joke.  The  women 
in  the  doorways  gave  a  little  sigh  as  he  passed.  A 
woman  will  often  sigh  at  the  thought  of  that  which 
another  woman  has  lost,  and  this  touches  a  whole 
gamut  of  thoughts  which  are  above  the  reach  of  a 
man's  mind. 

The  priest  tied  the  strings  of  a  sou'wester  under 

118 


ON    THE    EOCKS 

his  pink  cliiii.  He  was  little  more  than  a  hoy  after 
all — or  else  he  was  the  possessor  of  a  very  young 
heart. 

"Between  us  we  make  a  whole  man — you  and  I," 
he  said  cheerily.     "Perhaps  we  can  do  something." 

They  went  out  into  the  night,  the  priest  locking 
the  door  and  pausing  to  hide  the  key  under  the  mat 
in  the  porch.  They  all  keep  the  house-door  key  under 
the  mat  at  Yport.  In  the  narrow  street,  which  forms 
the  whole  village,  ranning  down  the  valley  to  the 
sea,  they  met  the  full  force  of  the  gale,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  breathlessly  fighting  against  it.  In  a 
lull  they  pushed  on. 

"And  the  tide  ?"  shouted  the  priest. 

"It  is  high  at  four  o'clock — a  spring  tide,  and  the 
wind  in  the  north-west — not  standing  room  on  the 
shore  against  the  cliff  for  a  man  from  here  to  Glain- 
val." 

At  high  tide  the  waves  beat  against  the  towering 
cliff  all  along  this  grim  coast,  and  a  man  standing 
on  the  turf  may  not  recognize  his  son  on  the  rocks 
below,  while  the  human  voice  can  only  span  the  dis- 
tance in  calmest  weather.  There  are  spaces  of  three 
and  four  miles  between  the  gaps  in  the  great  and 
inacessible  bluffs.  An  evil  lee-shore  to  have  under 
one's  quarter — one  of  the  waste  places  of  the  world 
which  Nature  has  set  apart  for  her  own  use.  When 
Nature  speaks  it  is  with  no  uncertain  voice. 

119 


ON    THE    ROCKS 

"There  is  old  Loisette/'  shouted  the  cure.  "He 
may  have  gone  to  bed  sober." 

"There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  it,"  shouted  the 
man  in  reply.  "No,  my  father,  if  there  is  aught 
to  be  done,  you  and  I  must  do  it." 

What  with  the  wind  and  the  flannel  ear-flaps  of 
the  sou'wester  it  was  hard  to  make  one's  self  heard, 
and  the  two  faces  almost  touched — the  unbeliever 
who  knew  so  little,  and  the  priest  who  knew  not  only 
books  but  men.  They  made  their  way  to  the  little 
quay,  or,  rather,  the  few  yards  of  sea-wall  that  pro- 
tect the  houses  at  the  corner  of  the  street.  But  here 
they  could  not  stand,  and  were  forced  to  retire  to 
the  lee  side  of  the  Hotel  de  la  Plage,  which,  as  all 
know,  stands  at  the  corner,  with  two  timorous  win- 
dows turned  seaward,  and  all  the  rest  seeking  the 
comfort  of  the  street. 

In  a  few  words  Belfort  explained  where  the  light 
had  been  seen,  and  where,  according  to  his  judgment, 
the  steamer  must  have  taken  the  rocks. 

"If  the  good  God  has  farther  use  for  any  of  them, 
he  will  throw  them  on  the  shore  a  kilometre  to  the 
east  of  us,  where  the  wire  rope  descends  from  the 
cliff  to  the  shore  for  the  seaweed,"  said  the 
priest. 

The  other  nodded. 

"What  must  be  done  must  be  done  quickly.  Let 
us  go,"  said  the  little  cure,  in  his  rather  bustling 

120 


ON    THE    EOCKS 

manner,  at  which  the  great,  slow-limbed  fishermen 
were  wont  to  laugh. 

"^Vllere  to  ?" 

"Along  the  shore." 

"With  a  rising  tide  racing  in  before  a  north-west- 
erly wind  ?"  said  Belfort,  grimly,  and  shook  his  head. 

"Why  not  ?  You  have  your  two  legs,  and  there  is 
Some  One — up  there  !" 

"I  shouldn't  have  thought  it,"  answered  the  man, 
glancing  up  at  the  storm-driven  clouds.  However, 
where  a  priest  can  go  a  one-armed  man  can  surely 
follow.     We  need  lanterns  and  a  bottle  of  brandy." 

"Yes ;  I  will  wait  and  watch  here  while  you  fetch 
them." 

The  priest,  left  alone,  peered  round  the  corner, 
shading  his  eyes  with  his  soft,  white  hand,  upon 
which  the  cold  rain  pattered.  To  the  east  of  him 
he  knew  that  there  were  three  miles  of  almost  im- 
passable shore,  of  unbroken,  unscalable  cliff.  To  the 
west  of  him  the  same.  On  the  one  hand  Fecamp, 
five  miles  away  by  a  cliff  path  that  none  would  at- 
tempt by  night,  nine  miles  by  road.  On  the  other 
hand  Etretat,  still  further  by  road  and  cliff  path. 
Inland  a  few  farms  and  many  miles  of  forest.  He 
and  Belfort  had  stumbled  over  the  fallen  telegraph 
wires  as  they  struggled  down  the  village  street.  'No ; 
if  there  was  a  wreck  out  there  in  the  darkness,  and 
men,    clinging   half-drowned    to    the    rigging,    were 

121 


ON    THE    EOCKS 

looking  towards  the  shore,  they  had  better  look  else- 
where. The  sea,  like  the  wind,  treated  Yport  as  the 
month  of  a  fnnnel,  and  a  hundred  cross  currents 
were  piling  up  such  waves  as  no  boat  could  pass, 
though  the  Yport  women  were  skilful  as  any  man 
with  oar  or  sail. 

Presently  Belfort  returned  carrying  two  lanterns. 

"I  have  told  her  that  we  will  not  quit  the  sea- 
wall," he  said,  with  a  short  laugh. 

And  straightway  they  both  clambered  over  the 
wall  and  dowai  the  iron  ladder  to  the  beach.  A 
meandering,  narrow  pathway  is  worn  on  the  weed- 
grown  chalk  from  the  village  to  the  washing-ground 
on  the  beach,  a  mile  to  the  eastward,  where,  at  low 
tide,  a  spring  of  fresh  water  wells  up  amid  the 
shingle  and  the  rock.  Along  this  pathway  the  two 
men  made  their  way,  the  cure  following  on  his  com- 
panion's heel.  They  stumbled  and  fell  many  times. 
At  every  step  they  slipped,  for  their  boots  were 
soaked  and  the  chalk  is  greasy  and  half  decomposed 
by  the  salt  water.  At  times  they  paused  to  listen, 
and  through  the  roar  of  the  wind  and  sea  came  the 
distant  note  of  a  bell  clanging  continuously. 

"It  is  the  bell  on  Fecamp  pier,"  said  Belfort. 
"The  mist  is  coming  before  the  dawn." 

To  the  east  the  long  arm  of  Fecamp  light  swung 
slowly  round  the  horizon,  from  the  summit  of  the 
great  bluff  of  Notre  Dame  du  Salut,  as  if  sweeping 

122 


ON    THE    ROCKS 

the  sea  and  elbowing  away  all  that  dared  approach 
so  grim  a  coast. 

"Ah !"  exclaimed  the  priest,  "I  am  in  the  water — 
the  tide  is  coming  np." 

To  their  left  a  wall  of  foam  and  spray  shut  off  all 
view  of  the  sea.  On  the  right  the  cliff  rose,  a  vast 
barrier,  and  cut  the  sky  in  two.  These  two  men  had 
nothing  in  common.  They  had,  indeed  standing 
between  them  that  sword  which  was  brought  into 
the  world  nineteen  hundred  years  ago,  and  is  still 
unsheathed.  But  neither  thought  of  turning  back. 
It  had  been  agreed  between  them  that  they  should 
make  what  speed  they  could  along  the  shore,  and  only 
turn  back  at  the  last  moment,  searching  the  sea  and 
beach  as  they  returned  in  the  light  of  dawn. 

Belfort,  the  leader,  the  expert  in  night  and  tide 
and  wind,  led  the  way  with  one  eye  on  the  sea,  the 
other  on  the  eastern  sky,  which  was  now  showing 
grey  through  tossing  clouds. 

"Here  we  must  turn,"  he  said  suddenly,  "and  the 
last  half  mile  to  the  sea-wall  we  shall  have  to  wade." 

They  paused  and  looked  up  to  the  sky.  In  half  an 
hour  the  day  would  come,  but  in  seventy  minutes  the 
breakers  must  beat  against  the  sheer  cliff. 

"I^one  has  reached  the  shore  alive  and  with  his 
senses,"  said  Belfort,  looking  out  to  sea.  "He  would 
have  seen  our  lights  and  come  to  us,  or  called  if  he 
had  broken  limbs.     It  is  useless  to  search  the  shore 

123 


ON"    THE    KOCKS 

too  closely.  We  shall  find  them  here  at  the  edge, 
half  in,  half  out,  especially  those  with  life  belts,  such 
as  we  find  any  winter  morning  after  bad  weather." 

He  spoke  grimly,  as  one  who  knew  that  it  is  not 
the  deep  sea  that  must  be  paid  its  toll,  but  the  shoal 
water  where  the  rocks  and  quicksands  and  crabs  and 
gulls  are  waiting.  They  made  their  way  back  in 
silence,  and  slowly  a  new  gray  day  crept  into  life. 
At  last  they  could  see  the  horizon  and  read  the  face 
of  the  water  still  torn  into  a  seething  chaos  of  foam. 
There  was  no  ship  upon  them.  If  there  had  been  a 
wreck  the  storm  had  done  its  work  thoroughly.  Bel- 
fort  climbed  to  the  summit  of  a  rock,  and  looked 
back  towards  Fecamp.  Then  he  turned  and  searched 
the  shore  towards  Yport. 

"There  is  one,"  he  cried,  "half  in,  half  out,  as  I 
said.  AVe  shall  cheat  the  crabs  at  all  events,  my 
father." 

And  clambering  down,  he  stumbled  on  with  a 
reckless  haste  that  contrasted  strangely  with  his 
speech.  For,  whatever  our  words  may  be,  a  human 
life  must  ever  command  respect.  Any  may  (as  some 
have  done)  die  laughing,  but  his  last  sight  must 
necessarily  be  of  grave  faces. 

"This  one  is  not  dead,"  said  the  priest,  when  they 
had  turned  the  man  over  and  dragged  him  to  dry 
land.  Belfort  cut  away  the  life-belt,  examining  it 
as  he  did  so. 

124 


ON   THE   ROCKS 

"'No  name,"  he  said.  "They  will  have  to  wait 
over  there  in  London,  till  he  can  tell  them  what 
ship  it  was.  See,  he  has  been  struck  on  the  head. 
But  he  is  alive — a  marvel." 

He  looked  up,  meeting  the  priest's  eyes,  and, 
remembering  his  words  spoken  under  the  lee  of  the 
wall  of  the  Hotel  de  la  Plage,  he  laughed  as  a  fencer 
may  laugh  who  has  been  touched  beyond  doubt  by 
a  skilful  adversary. 

"He  is  a  small-made  man  and  light  enough  to 
carry — some  town  mouse  this — my  father — who  has 
never  had  a  wet  jacket  before — see  his  face  how 
white  it  is,  and  his  little  arms  and  hands.  We  can 
carry  him,  turn  and  turn  about,  and  shall  reach  the 
sea-wall  before  the  tide  is  up,  provided  we  find  no 


more." 


It  was  full  daylight  when  they  at  length  reached 
the  weed-grown  steps  at  the  side  of  the  sea-wall,  and 
the  smoke  was  already  beginning  to  rise  from  the 
chimneys  of  Yport.  The  gale  was  waning  as  the  day 
came,  but  the  sea  was  at  its  highest,  and  all  the 
houses  facing  northward  had  their  wooden  shutters 
up.  The  waves  were  breaking  over  the  sea-wall,  but 
the  two  men  with  their  senseless  burden  took  no  heed 
of  it.     They  were  all  past  thinking  of  salt  water. 

In  answer  to  their  summons,  the  Mother  Senne- 
ville  came  hastily  enough  to  the  back  door  of  the 
Hotel  de  la  Plage — a  small  inn  of  no  great  promise. 

125 


ON   THE   ROCKS 

The  Mother  Senneville  was  a  great  woman,  six  feet 
high,  with  the  carriage  of  a  Grenadier,  the  calm  eye 
of  some  ruminating  animal,  the  soft,  deep  voice,  and 
perhaps  the  soft  heart,  of  a  giant. 

"Already!"  she  said  simply,  as  she  held  the  door 
back  for  them  to  pass  in.  "I  thought  there  would 
likely  be  some  this  morning  without  the  money  in 
their  pockets." 

"This  one  will  not  call  too  loud  for  his  coffee," 
replied  Belfort,  with  a  cynicism  specially  assumed 
for  the  benefit  of  the  cure.  "And  now,"  he  added,  as 
they  laid  their  burden  on  the  wine-stained  table,  "if 
he  has  papers  that  will  tell  us  the  name  of  the  ship, 
I  will  walk  to  Fecamp,  to  Lloyds'  agents  there,  with 
the  news.  It  will  be  a  five-franc  piece  in  my 
pocket." 

They  hastily  searched  the  dripping  clothing,  and 
found  a  crumpled  envelope,  which,  however,  told 
them  all  they  desired  to  know.  It  was  addressed  to 
Mr.  Albert  Robinson,  steamship  Ocean  Waif,  South- 
ampton. 

"That  will  suffice,"  said  Belfort.  "I  take  this, 
and  leave  the  rest  to  you  and  Mother  Senneville." 

"Send  the  doctor  from  Fecamp,"  said  the  woman 
— "the  new  one  in  the  Rue  du  Bac.  It  is  the  young 
ones  that  work  best  for  nothing,  and  here  is  no  pay- 
ment for  any  of  us." 

"JSTot  now,"  said  the  priest. 

126 


ON    THE    KOCKS 

•'Ah !"  cried  Belfort,  tossing  off  the  brandy,  which 
the  Mother  Senneville  had  poured  out  for  him.  "You 
— ^you  expect  so  much  in  the  Hereafter,  Mr.  the 
Cure." 

"And  you — ^you  expect  so  much  in  the  present, 
Mr.  the  one-armed  malcontent,"  replied  the  priest, 
with  his  comfortable  little  laugh.  "Come,  Madame 
Senneville.     Let  me  get  this  man  to  bed." 

"It  is  an  Englishman,  of  course,"  said  the  Mother 
Senneville,  examining  the  placid  white  face.  "They 
throw  their  dead  about  the  world  like  cigar-ends." 

By  midday  the  news  was  in  the  London  streets, 
and  the  talk  was  all  of  storms  and  wrecks  and  gallant 
rescues.  And  a  few  whose  concern  it  was  noted  the 
fact  that  the  Ocean  Waif,  of  London,  on  a  voyage 
from  Antwerp  and  Southampton  to  the  River  Plate, 
had  supposedly  been  wrecked  off  the  north  coast  of 
Erance.  Sole  survivor,  Albert  Robinson,  apparently 
a  fireman  or  a  steward,  who  lay  at  the  Hotel  de  la 
Plage  at  Yport,  unconscious,  and  suffering  from  a 
severe  concussion  of  the  brain.  By  midday,  also, 
the  cure  was  established  as  sick  nurse  in  the  back 
bedroom  of  the  little  hotel  with  an  English  conversa- 
tion-book, borrowed  from  the  schoolmaster,  protrud- 
ing from  the  pocket  of  his  soutane,  awaiting  the  re- 
turn of  Albert  Robinson's  inner  consciousness. 

"Are  you  feeling  better  ?"  the  cure  had  all  ready 
to  fire  off  at  him  as  soon  as  he  awoke.    To  which  the 

127 


ON    THE    EOCKS 

conversation-book  made  reply:  "Yes,  but  I  have 
caught  a  severe  chill  on  the  mountain,"  which  also 
the  cure  had  made  ready  to  understand  —  with 
modifications. 

But  the  day  passed  away  without  any  use  having 
been  found  for  the  conversation-book.  And  sundry 
persons,  whose  business  it  was,  came  and  looked  at 
Albert  Robinson,  and  talked  to  the  priest  and  to 
Jean  Belfort — who,  to  tell  the  truth,  made  much 
capital  and  a  number  of  free  glasses  of  red  wine  out 
of  the  incident — and  went  away  again. 

The  cure  passed  that  night  on  the  second  bed  of 
the  back  bedroom  of  the  Hotel  de  la  Plage,  and 
awoke  only  at  daylight,  full  of  self-reproach,  to  find 
his  charge  still  unconscious,  still  placid  like  a  statue, 
with  cheeks  a  little  hollower,  and  lips  a  little  whiter. 
The  young  doctor  came  and  shook  his  head,  and  dis- 
coursed of  other  cases  of  a  similar  nature  which  he 
had  read  up  since  the  previous  day,  and  pretended 
now  to  have  remembered  among  his  experiences.  He 
also  went  away  again,  and  Yport  seemed  to  drop  out 
of  the  world  once  more  into  that  oblivion  to  which 
a  village  with  such  a  poor  sea  front  and  no  railway 
station,  or  lodging  houses,  or  hotels  where  there  are 
waiters,  must  expect  to  be  consigned. 

The  cure  had  just  finished  his  dejeuner  of  fish  and 
an  omelette — the  day  being  Friday — when  a  car- 
riage rattled  down  the  village  street,  leaving  behind 

128 


ON"    THE    ROCKS 

it  doorways  suddenly  occupied  by  the  female  popula- 
tion of  Yix)rt  wiping  its  hands  upon  its  apron. 

"It  is  Frangois  Morin's  carriage  from  Fecamp," 
said  the  Mother  Senneville,  "with  a  Parisienne, 
who  has  a  parasol,  if  you  please." 

"No,"  corrected  the  cure;  "that  is  an  English- 
woman.    I  saw  several  last  year  in  Rouen." 

And  he  hurried  out,  hatless,  conversation-book  in 
hand.  He  was  rather  taken  aback — never  having 
spoken  to  a  person  so  well-dressed  as  this  English 
girl,  who  nodded  quickly  in  answer  to  his  salu- 
tation. 

"Is  this  the  hotel  ?  Is  he  here  ?  Is  he  conscious 
yet?"  she  asked  in  tolerable  French. 

"Yes — madam.  He  is  here,  but  he  is  not  con- 
scious yet     The  doctor " 

"I  am  not  madam — I  am  mademoiselle.  I  am  his 
sister,"  said  the  girl,  quickly  descending  from  the 
carriage  and  frankly  accepting  the  assistance  of  the 
cure's  rather  timid  hand. 

He  followed  her  meekly,  wondering  at  her  com- 
plete self-possession — at  an  utter  lack  of  ceremony — 
at  a  certain  blunt  frankness  which  was  new  to  Yport. 
She  nodded  to  Madame  Senneville. 

"Where  is  he  ?"  she  asked. 

"Monsieur  le  Cure  will  show  you.  It  is  he  who 
has  saved  his  life." 

The  young  lady  turned  and  looked  into  the  priest's 

129 


ON    THE    KOCKS 

pink  face,  which  grew  pinker.    This  was   not  the 
material  of  which  gallant  rescuers  are  usually  made. 

"Thank  you,  Monsieur  le  Cure/'  she  said,  with  a 
sudden  gentleness.  "Thank  you.  It  is  so  difficult — 
is  it  not? — to  thank  any  one." 

"There  is  not  the  necessity,"  murmured  the  little 
cure,  rather  confusedly;  and  he  led  the  way  up- 
stairs. 

Once  in  the  sick-room  he  found  his  tongue  again, 
and  explained  matters  volubly  enough.  Besides,  she 
made  it  easy.  She  was  so  marvellously  natural,  so 
free  from  a  certain  constraint  which  in  some  French 
circles  is  mistaken  for  good  manners.  She  asked 
every  detail,  and  made  particular  inquiry  as  to  who 
had  seen  the  patient. 

"No  one  must  be  allowed  to  see  him,"  she  said, 
in  her  decisive  way.  "He  must  be  kept  quite  quiet. 
No  one  must  approach  this  room,  only  you  and  I, 
Monsieur  le  Cure." 

"Yes,  mademoiselle,"  he  said,  slowly.     "Yes." 

"You  have  been  so  good — ^you  have  done  such 
wonders,  that  I  rely  upon  you  to  help  me;"  and  a 
sudden,  sharp  look  of  anxiety  swept  across  her  face. 
"We  shall  be  good  friends — n^est  ce  yasf^  she  said, 
turning  to  look  at  him  as  he  stood  near  the  door. 

"It  will  be  easy,  I  think,  mademoiselle." 

Then  he  turned  to  Madame  Senneville,  who  was 
carrying  the  baggage  upstairs. 

130 


ON    THE    ROCKS 

"It  is  his  sister,  Madame  Senneville,"  he  said. 
"She  will,  of  course,  stay  in  the  hotel." 

"Yes,  and  I  have  no  room  ready,"  replied  the  huge 
woman,  pessimistically.  "One  never  knows  what  a 
summer  storm  may  bring  to  one." 

"!N^o,  Mother  Senneville,  no;  one  never  knows," 
he  said  rather  absently,  and  went  out  into  the  street. 
He  was  thinking  of  the  strange  young  person 
upstairs,  who  was  unlike  any  woman  he  had  met  or 
imagined.  Those  in  her  station  in  life  whom  he  had 
seen  during  his  short  thirty  years  were  mostly 
dressed-up  dolls,  to  whom  one  made  banal  remarks 
without  meaning.  The  rest  were  almost  men,  doing 
men's  work,  leading  a  man's  life. 

That  same  evening  the  injured  man  recovered 
consciousness,  and  it  was  the  cure  who  sent  off  the 
telegram  to  the  doctor  at  Fecamp.  For  the  wire  had 
been  repaired  with  the  practical  rapidity  with  which 
they  manage  such  affairs  in  France. 

Through  the  slow  recovery  it  was  the  cure  who 
was  ever  at  the  beck  and  call  of  the  two  strangers, 
divining  their  desires,  making  quite  easy  a  situation 
which  otherwise  might  have  been  difficult  enough. 
N^ot  only  the  cure,  but  the  whole  village  soon  became 
quite  reconciled  to  the  hitherto  unheard-of  position 
assumed  by  this  young  girl,  without  a  guardian  or 
a  chaperon,  who  lived  a  frank,  fearless  life  among 
them,  making  every  day  terrible  assaults  upon  that 

131 


01^   THE    KOCKS 

code   of  feminine   behavior   which  hedges   French- 
women about  like  a  wall. 

In  the  intimacy  of  the  sick-room  the  little  priest 
soon  learnt  to  talk  with  the  Englishwoman  and  her 
brother  quite  freely,  as  man  to  man,  as  he  had  talked 
to  his  bosom  friend  by  selection  at  St.  Omer.  And 
there  was  in  his  heart  that  ever  abiding  wonder  that 
a  woman  may  thus  be  a  companion  to  a  man,  sharing 
his  thoughts,  nay,  divining  them  before  he  had  shaped 
them  in  his  own  mind.  It  was  all  very  wonderful 
and  new  to  this  little  priest,  who  had  walked,  as  it 
were,  on  one  side  of  the  street  of  life  since  boyhood 
without  a  thought  of  crossing  the  road. 

When  the  three  were  together  they  were  merry 
enough;  indeed,  the  Englishman's  mistakes  in 
French  were  sufficient  to  cause  laughter  in  them- 
selves without  that  re-action  which  lightens  the  at- 
mosphere of  a  sick-room  when  the  danger  is  past. 
But  while  he  was  talking  to  the  Mother  Senneville 
downstairs,  or  waiting  a  summons  to  come  up,  the 
cure  never  heard  laughter  in  the  back  bedroom. 
There  seemed  to  be  some  shadow  there  which  fled 
before  his  cheery  smile  when  he  went  upstairs.  When 
he  and  the  girl  were  together  when  she  walked  on 
the  sea-wall  with  him  for  a  breath  of  air,  she  was 
grave  enough  too,  as  if  now  that  she  knew  him  better 
she  no  longer  considered  it  necessary  to  assume  a 
light-heartedness  she  did  not  feel. 

132 


ON    THE    ROCKS 

"Are  you  sure  there  is  nothing  I  can  do  to  make 
your  life  easier  here?"  he  asked  suddenly  one 
day. 

"Quite  sure,"  she  answered  without  conviction. 

"Have  you  all  that  you  want,  mademoiselle?" 

"Oh  yes." 

But  he  felt  that  there  was  some  anxiety  weighing 
upon  her.  He  was  always  at  or  near  the  Hotel  de  la 
Plage  now,  so  that  she  could  call  him  from  the  win- 
dow or  the  door.  One  day — a  day  of  cloud  and 
drizzle,  which  are  common  enough  at  Yport  in  the 
early  summer — he  went  into  the  little  front  room, 
which  the  Mother  Senneville  fondly  called  her  salon, 
to  read  the  daily  office  from  the  cloth-bound  book 
he  ever  carried  in  his  pocket.  He  was  engaged  in 
this  devout  work  when  the  Englishwoman  came  has- 
tily into  the  room,  closing  the  door  and  standing  with 
her  back  against  it. 

"There  is  a  gendarme  in  the  street,"  she  said,  in 
little  more  than  a  whisper,  her  eyes  glittering.  She 
was  breathless. 

"Wliat  of  it,  mademoiselle  ?  It  is  my  old  friend 
the  Sergeant  Grail.  It  is  I  who  christen  his  chil- 
dren." 

"Why  is  he  here  ?" 

"It  is  his  duty,  mademoiselle.  The  village  is 
peaceful  enough  now  that  the  men  are  away  at  the 
fisheries.     You  have  nothing  to  fear." 

133 


ON    THE    KOCKS 

She  glanced  round  the  room  with  a  hunted  look 
in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "I  cannot  keep  it  up  any  longer. 
You  must  have  guessed — ^you  who  are  so  quick — 
that  my  brother  is  a  great  criminal.  He  has  ruined 
thousands  of  people.  He  was  escaping  with  the 
money  he  had  stolen  when  the  steamer  was  wrecked." 

The  cure  did  not  say  whether  this  news  surprised 
him  or  not,  but  walked  to  the  window  and  looked 
thoughtfully  out  to  sea.  The  windows  were  dull  and 
spray-ridden. 

"Ah !"  the  girl  cried,  "you  must  not  judge  hastily. 
You  cannot  know  his  temptation." 

"I  will  not  judge  at  all,  mademoiselle.  Ko  man 
may  judge  of  another's  temptation.  But — ^he  can 
restore  the  money." 

"]^o.     It  was  all  lost  in  the  steamer." 

She  had  approached  the  other  window,  and  stood 
beside  the  little  priest  looking  out  over  the  grey  sea. 

"It  was  surely  my  duty  to  come  here  and  help  him, 
whatever  he  had  done." 

"Assuredly,  mademoiselle." 

"But  he  says  you  can  give  him  up  if  you  like." 

She  glanced  at  him  and  caught  her  breath.  The 
priest  shook  his  head. 

"Why  not  ?  Because  you  are  too  charitable  ?"  she 
whispered,  and  again  he  shook  his  head.  "Then,  why 
not  ?"  she  persisted  with  a  strange  pertinacity. 

134 


0¥    THE    ROCKS 

"Because  lie  is  your  brother,  mademoiselle." 
And  they  stood  for  some  moments  looking  out  over 
the   sea,   tlirough   tlie   rime-covered   windows,    in    a 
breathless  silence.     The  cure  spoke  at  length. 

"You  must  get  him  removed  to  Havre,"  he  said, 
in  his  cheery  way,  "as  soon  as  possible.  There  he 
can  take  a  steamer  to  America.  I  will  impress  upon 
the  doctor  the  necessity  of  an  early  departure." 

It  was  not  lately,  but  many  years  ago,  that  the 
Ocean  Waif  was  wrecked  in  a  summer  storm.  And 
any  who  penetrate  to  Yport  to-day  will  probably  see 
in  the  sunlight  on  the  sea-wall  a  cheery  little  cure, 
who  taps  his  snuif-box  while  he  exchanges  jokes  with 
the  idlers  there.  Yport  has  slowly  crept  into  the  ken 
of  the  traveller,  and  every  summer  sees  English  tour- 
ists pass  that  way.  They  are  not  popular  with  the 
rough  natives,  who,  after  all,  are  of  the  same  ancestry 
as  ourselves;  but  the  little  cure  is  quick  and  kind 
with  information  or  assistance  to  all  who  seek  it. 
When  the  English  tongue  is  spoken  he  draws  near 
and  listens — snuff-box  in  hand;  when  the  travellers 
speak  in  Erench  his  eyes  travel  out  to  sea  with  a  queer 
look,  as  if  the  accent  aroused  some  memory. 

And  in  an  obscure  English  watering-place  there 
lives  a  queer  little  old  maid — churchy  and  prim — 
who  does  charitable  work,  gives  her  opinion  very 
freely    concerning    the    administration    of    matters 

135 


ON    THE    ROCKS 

parochial,  thinks  the  vicar  very  self-indulgent  and 
idle — and  in  her  own  heart  has  the  abiding  convic- 
tion that  there  are  none  on  earth  like  the  Eoman 
clergy. 


I 


136 


"  GOLOSSA-A-L  " 


VII 

"GOLOSSA-A-L" 

"GoLOssA-A-L !"  I  heard  him  say.  "Golossa-a-1, 
these  Englishmen !    Are  they  not  everywhere  ?" 

A  moment  later  I  was  introduced  to  him,  and  he 
rose  to  shake  hands — a  tall,  fair,  good-natured  Ger- 
man student.  Heavy  if  you  will — ^but  clean  withal, 
and  of  a  cleanly  mind. 

"Honor,"  he  muttered  politely.  "It  is  not  often 
we  have  an  English  student  at  Gottingen — but  per- 
haps we  can  teach  you  something — eh  ?"  And  he 
broke  into  a  boyish  laugh.  "You  will  take  beer?" 
he  added,  drawing  forward  an  iron  chair — for  we 
were  in  the  Brauerei  Garden. 

"Thank  you." 

"A  doctor  of  medicine — the  Herr  Professor  tells 
me,"  he  said  pleasantly.  "Prosit,"  he  added,  as  he 
raised  his  great  mug  to  his  lips. 

"Prosit?  Yes,  a  doctor  of  medicine — of  the 
army." 

"Ah,  of  the  army,  that  is  good.  I  also  I  hope, 
some  day!    And  you  come  to  pass  our  Gottingen 

139 


"GOLOSSA-A-L" 

examination.  Yes,  but  it  is  hard — ach  Gott! — devil- 
ish hard." 

There  was  a  restrained  shyness  about  the  man 
which  I  liked.  Shy  men  are  so  rare.  And,  although 
he  could  have  cleared  the  Brauerei  Garden  in  five 
minutes,  there  was  no  bluster  about  this  Teutonic 
Hercules.  His  loud,  good-natured  laugh  was  per- 
haps the  most  striking  characteristic  of  Carl  von 
Mendebach.  ^ext  to  that,  his  readiness  to  be  sur- 
prised at  everything  or  anything,  and  to  class  it  at 
once  as  colossal.  Hence  the  nickname  by  which  he 
was  known  amongst  us.  The  term  was  applied  to 
me  a  thousand  times — figuratively.  For  I  am  a 
small  man,  as  I  have  had  reason  to  deplore  more  than 
once  while  carrying  the  wounded  out  of  action.  It 
takes  so  much  longer  if  one  is  small. 

I  cannot  exactly  say  why  Carl  von  Mendebach 
and  I  became  close  friends ;  but  I  do  not  think  that 
Lisa  von  Mendebach  had  anything  to  do  with  it.  I 
was  never  in  love  with  Lisa,  although  I  admired  her 
intensely,  and  I  never  see  a  blue-eyed,  fair-haired 
girl  to  this  day  without  thinking  of  Lischen.  But 
I  was  not  in  love  with  her.  I  was  never  good-look- 
ing. I  did  not  begin  by  expecting  much  from  the 
other  sex,  and  I  have  never  been  in  love  with  any- 
body.    I  wonder  if  Lisa  remembers  me. 

The  students  were  pleasant  enough  fellows.  It 
must  be  recollected  that  I  speak  of  a  period  dating 

140 


"GOLOSSA-A-L" 

back  before  the  war  of  1870 — before  there  was  a 
German  Empire.  I  soon  made  a  sort  of  place  for 
myself  at  the  University,  and  I  was  tolerated  good- 
naturedly.  But  Carl  did  more  than  tolerate  me. 
He  gave  me  all  the  friendship  of  his  simple  heart. 
Without  being  expansive — for  he  was  a  Hanoverian 
— ^he  told  me  all  about  himself,  his  thoughts  and  his 
aims,  an  open-hearted  ambition  and  a  very  Germanic 
contentment  with  a  world  which  contained  beer  and 
music.  Then  at  last  he  told  me  all  about  his  father, 
General  von  Mendebach,  and  Lisa.  Finally  he  took 
me  to  his  house  one  evening  to  supper. 

"Father,"  he  said,  in  his  loud,  cheery  way,  "here 
is  the  Englishman — a  good  friend  of  mine — a  great 
scholar — golossa-a-1." 

The  General  held  out  his  hand  and  Lisa  bowed, 
prettily  formal,  with  a  quaint,  prim  smile  which  I 
can  see  still. 

I  went  to  the  house  often — as  often,  indeed,  as  I 
could.  I  met  the  Von  Mendebachs  at  the  usual 
haunts — the  theatre,  an  occasional  concert,  the  band 
on  Sunday  afternoon,  and  at  the  houses  of  some  of 
the  professors.  It  was  Lisa  who  told  me  that  another 
young  Briton  was  coming  to  live  in  Gottingen — not, 
however,  as  a  student  at  the  University.  He  turned 
out  to  be  a  Scotsman — one  Andrew  Smallie,  the  dis- 
solute offspring  of  a  prim  Edinburgh  family.  He 
had  been  shipped  off  to  Gottingen,  in  the  hope  that 

141 


"GOLOSSA-A-L" 

he  might  there  drink  himself  quietly  to  death.  The 
Scotch  do  not  keep  their  skeletons  at  home  in  a 
cupboard.  They  ship  them  abroad  and  give  them 
facilities. 

Andrew  Smallie  soon  heard  that  there  was  an 
English  student  in  Gottingen,  and,  before  long,  pro- 
cured an  introduction.  I  disliked  him  at  once.  I 
took  good  care  not  to  introduce  him  to  any  friends  of 
mine. 

"Seem  to  lead  a  quiet  life  here,"  he  said  to  me 
one  day  when  I  had  exhausted  all  conversation  and 
every  effort  to  get  him  out  of  my  rooms. 

"Very,"   I   replied. 

"Don't  you  know  anybody?  It's  a  deuced  slow 
place.  I  don't  know  a  soul  to  talk  to  except  yourself. 
Can't  take  to  these  beer-drinking,  sausage-eating 
Germans,  you  know.  Met  that  friend  of  yours,  Carl 
von  Mendebach,   yesterday,  but  he  didn't  seem  to 


see  me." 


"Yes,"  I  answered.  "It  is  possible  he  did  not 
know  you.     You  have  never  been  introduced." 

"No,"  he  answered  dubiously.  "Shouldn't  think 
that  would  matter  in  an  out-of-the-way  place  like 
this." 

"It  may  seem  out  of  the  way  to  you,"  I  said, 
without  looking  up  from  my  book.  "But  it  does  not 
do  so  to  the  people  who  live  here." 

"D d  slow  lot,   I   call  them,"  he  muttered. 

142 


"GOLOSSA-A-L" 

He  lighted  a  cigar  and  stood  looking  at  me  for  some 
time  and  then  he  went  awaj. 

It  was  about  this  time  that  Carl  von  Mendebach 
fought  his  first  student  duel,  and  he  was  kind  enough 
to  ask  me  to  be  his  surgeon.  It  was,  of  course,  no 
quarrel  of  his  own,  but  a  point  of  honor  between  two 
clubs ;  and  Carl  was  selected  to  represent  his  "corps." 
He  was  delighted,  and  the  little  slit  in  his  cheek 
which  resulted  from  the  encounter  gave  him  infinite 
satisfaction.  I  had  been  elected  to  the  "corps"  too, 
and  wore  my  cap  and  colors  with  considerable  pride. 
But  being  an  Englishman,  I  was  never  asked  to  fight. 
I  did  not  then,  and  I  do  not  now,  put  forward  any 
opinion  on  student  duelling.  My  opinion  would 
make  no  difference,  and  there  is  much  to  be  said  on 
both  sides. 

It  was  a  hard  winter,  and  I  know  few  colder  places 
than  Gottingen.  An  ice  fete  was  organized  by  the 
University.  I  believe  Carl  and  I  were  among  the 
most  energetic  of  the  organizers.  I  wish  I  had  never 
had  anything  to  do  with  it. 

I  remember  to  this  day  the  pleasure  of  skating 
with  Lisa's  warmly  gloved  little  hands  in  my  own — 
her  small  furred  form  touching  me  lightly  each  time 
we  swung  over  to  the  left  on  the  outside  edge.  I 
saw  Andrew  Smallie  once  or  twice.  Once  he  winked 
at  me,  knowingly,  as  I  passed  him  with  Lisa — and 
I  hated  him  for  it.     That  man  almost  spoilt  Gottin- 

143 


"GOLOSSA-A-L" 

gen  for  me.  Britons  are  no  friends  of  mine  out  of 
their  own  country.  They  never  get  over  the  fallacy 
that  everywhere  except  London  is  an  out-of-the-way 
place  where  nothing  matters. 

As  the  evening  wore  on,  some  of  the  revellers  be- 
came noisy  in  a  harmless  German  way.  They  began 
to  sing  part  songs  with  a  skill  which  is  not  heard  out 
of  the  Fatherland.  Parties  of  young  men  and 
maidens  joined  hands  and  swung  round  the  lake  in 
waltz  time  to  the  strain  of  the  regimental  band. 

Lisa  was  tired,  so  she  sought  a  seat  with  the 
General,  leaving  Carl  and  me  to  practise  complicated 
figTires.  They  found  a  seat  close  to  us — a  seat  some- 
what removed  from  the  lamps.  In  the  dusk  it  was 
difficult  to  distinguish  between  the  townspeople  and 
the  gentlefolk. 

We  were  absorbed  in  our  attempts  when  I  heard  a 
voice  I  knew — and  hated. 

"Here,  you,  little  girl  in  the  fur  jacket — come  and 
have  a  turn  with  me,"  it  was  saying  in  loud,  rasping, 
intoxicated  tones. 

I  turned  sharply.  Smallie  was  standing  in  front 
of  Lisa  with  a  leer  in  his  eyes.  She  was  looking  up 
at  him — puzzled,  frightened — not  understanding 
English.     The  General  was  obesely  dumfounded. 

"Come  along — my  dear,"  Andrew  Smallie  went 
on.  He  reached  out  his  hand,  and,  grasping  her 
wrist  tried  to  drag  her  towards  him. 

144 


"GOLOSSA-A-L" 

Then  I  went  for  him.  I  am,  as  I  have  confessed, 
a  small  man.  But  if  a  man  on  skates  goes  for 
another,  he  gathers  a  certain  impetus.  I  gave  it  to 
him  with  my  left,  and  Andrew  Smallie  slid  along 
the  ice  after  he  had  fallen. 

The  General  hustled  Lisa  away,  muttering  oaths 
beneath  his  great  white  mustache. 

When  Andrew  Smallie  picked  himself  up,  Carl 
von  Mendebach  was  standing  over  him. 

"Tell  him,"  said  Carl,  in  German,  "that  that  was 
my  sister." 

I  told  Smallie. 

Then  Carl  von  Mandebach  slowly  drew  off  his 
fur  glove  and  boxed  Smallie  heavily  on  the  ear  so 
that  he  rolled  over  sideways. 

"Golossa-a-1,"  muttered  Von  Mendebach,  as  we 
went  away  hurriedly  together. 

The  next  morning  Carl  sent  an  English-speaking 
student  with  a  challenge  to  Andrew  Smallie.  I  wrote 
a  note  to  my  compatriot,  telling  him  that  although  it 
was  not  our  habit  in  England  he  would  do  well 
to  accept  the  challenge  or  to  leave  Gottingen  at 
once. 

Carl  stood  over  me  while  I  wrote  the  letter. 

"Tell  him,"  he  said,  "where  he  can  procure 
fencing  lessons." 

I  gave  Smallie  the  name  of  the  best  fencing-master 
in  Gottingen.     Then  we  called  for  beer  and  awaited 

145 


"GOLOSSA-A-L" 

the   return    of  our  messenger.     The   student  came 
back  looking  grave  and  pale. 

"He  accepts,"  he  said.     "But " 

"Well!"  we  both  exclaimed. 

"He  names  pistols." 

"\Vhat  ?"  I  cried. 

Carl  laughed  suddenly.  We  had  never  thought  of 
such  a  thing.  Duelling  with  pistols  is  forbidden.  It 
is  never  dreamt  of  among  German  students. 

"Ah— all  right !"  said  Carl.     "If  he  wishes  it." 

I  at  once  wrote  a  note  to  Smallie,  telling  him  that 
the  thing  was  impossible.  My  messenger  was  sent 
back  without  an  answer.  I  wrote,  offering  to  fight 
Carl  myself  with  the  usual  light  sword  or  the  sabre, 
in  his  name  and  for  him.  To  this  I  received  no 
answer.  I  went  round  to  his  rooms  and  was  refused 
admittance. 

The  next  morning  at  five^ — ^before  it  was  light — 
Carl  and  I  started  off  on  foot  for  a  little  forest  down 
by  the  river.  At  six  o'clock  Andrew  Smallie  arrived. 
He  was  accompanied  by  an  Einjahriger — a  German 
who  had  lived  in  England  before  he  came  home  to 
serve  his  year  in  the  army. 

We  did  not  know  much  about  it.  Carl  laughed  as 
I  put  him  in  position.  The  fresh  pink  of  his  cheek 
— like  the  complexion  of  a  healthy  girl — never  faded 
for  a  moment. 

146 


"GOLOSSA-A-L" 

"When  I've  done  with  him,"  cried  Smallie,  "I'll 
fight  you." 

We  placed  our  men.  The  German  soldier  gave 
the  word.     Carl  von  Mendebach  went  down  heavily. 

He  was  still  smiling — with  a  strange  surprise  on 
his  simple  face. 

"Little  man,"  he  said,  "he  has  hit  me." 

He  lay  quite  still  while  I  quickly  loosened  his 
coat.     Then  suddenly  his  breath  caught. 

"Golossa-a-1 !"  he  muttered. 

His  eyes  glazed.     He  was  dead. 

I  looked  up  and  saw  Smallie  walking  quickly  away 
alone.     The  Einjahriger  was  kneeling  beside  me. 

I  have  never  seen  or  heard  of  Andrew  Smallie 
since.  I  am  a  gray-haired  man  now.  I  have  had 
work  to  do  in  every  war  of  my  day.  I  have  been 
wounded — I  walk  very  lame.  But  I  still  hope  to 
see  Andrew  Smallie — perhaps  in  a  country  where  I 
can  hold  him  to  his  threat ;  if  it  is  only  for  the  re- 
membrance of  five  minutes  that  I  had  with  Lisa 
when  I  went  back  to  Gottingen  that  cold  winter 
morning. 


147 


THE   MULE 


VIII 

THE  MULE. 
"  Si  je  vis,  c'est  bien;  si  je  meurs,  c'est  bien." 

"Ai-i-iEAH,"  the  people  cried,  as  Juan  Quereno 
passed — the  cry  of  the  muleteers,  in  fact.  And  this 
was  considered  an  excellent  joke.  It  had  been  a  joke 
in  the  country-side  for  nearly  twenty  years;  one  of 
perhaps  half  a  dozen,  for  the  uneducated  mind  is  slow 
to  comprehend  and  slower  to  forget.  Some  one  had 
nicknamed  Juan  Quereno  the  "Mule"  when  he  was 
at  school,  and  Spain,  like  Italy  and  parts  of  Prov- 
ence, is  a  country  where  men  have  two  names — the 
baptismal,  and  the  so-called.  Indeed,  the  custom  is 
so  universal,  that  official  records  must  needs  take 
cognizance  of  it,  and  grave  Government  papers  are 
made  out  in  the  name  of  so-and-so,  "named  the 
monkey." 

There  were,  after  all,  worse  by-names  in  the  village 
than  the  Mule,  which  is,  as  many  know,  a  willing 
enough  beast  if  taken  the  right  way.  If  taken  in 
the  wrong — well,  one  must  not  take  him  in  the  wrong 
way,  and  there  is  an  end  of  it!     A  mule  will  sud- 

151 


THE    MULE 

denly  stop  because,  it  would  appear,  he  has  some- 
thing on  his  mind  and  desires  to  think  it  out  then 
and  there.  And  the  man  who  raises  a  stick  is,  of 
course,  a  fool.  Any  one  knows  that.  There  is 
nothing  for  it  but  to  stand  and  watch  his  ears,  which 
are  a  little  set  back,  and  cry,  "Ai-i-ieah,"  patiently 
and  respectfully,  until  the  spirit  moves  him  to  go 
on.  And  then  the  mule  will  move  on,  slowly  at  first, 
without  enthusiasm,  a  quality  which,  by  the  way,  is 
of  all  the  animals,  only  to  be  found  in  the  horse  and 
the  dog. 

The  quick-witted  who  had  dealings  with  Quereno 
knew,  therefore,  by  his  name  what  manner  of  man 
this  was,  and  dealt  with  him  accordingly.  Juan 
Quereno  was  himself  a  muleteer,  and  in  even  such  a 
humble  capacity  as  scrambling  behind  a  beast  of 
burden  over  a  rocky  range  of  mountains  and  through 
a  stream  or  two,  a  man  may  make  for  himself  a 
small  reputation  in  his  small  world.  Juan  Quereno 
was,  namely,  a  Government  muleteer,  and  carried  the 
mails  over  nineteen  chaotic  miles  of  rock  and  river. 
When  the  mails  were  delayed,  owing,  it  was  officially 
announced,  to  heavy  snow  or  rain  in  the  mountains, 
the  delay  never  occurred  on  Quereno's  etapa. 

For  nine  years,  winter  and  summer,  storm  and 
shine,  he  got  his  mails  through,  backwards  and  for- 
wards, sleeping  one  night  at  San  Celoni  the  next  at 
Puente  de  Rey.    Such  was  Juan  Quereno,  "a  stupid 

152 


THE    MULE 

enough  fellow,"  the  democratic  schoolmaster  of  San- 
Celoni  said,   with  a   shrug  of  his  shoulders  and  a 
wave  of  the  cigarette  which  he  always  carried  half- 
smoked  and  unlighted  in  his  fingers. 

The  schoolmaster  was,  nevertheless,  pleasant 
enough  when  the  Mule,  clean-shaven  and  shy,  with 
a  shrinking  look  in  his  steady  black  eyes,  asked  one 
evening  if  he  could  speak  to  him  alone. 

"But  yes — amigo!"  he  replied;  "but  yes,"  And 
he  drew  aside  on  the  bench  that  stands  at  the  school- 
house  door.     "Sit  down." 

The  Mule  sat  down,  leant  heavily  against  the  wall, 
and  thrust  out  first  one  hea\^  foot  and  then  the  other. 
Then  he  sat  forward  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
and  looked  at  his  dusty  boots.  His  face  was  tanned 
a  deep  brown — a  stolid  face — not  indicative  of  much 
intelligence  perhaps,  not  spiritual,  but  not  bad  on 
the  other  hand,  which  is  something  in  a  world  that 
abounds  in  bad  faces.  He  glanced  sideways  at  the 
schoolmaster,  and  moistened  his  lips  with  his  tongue, 
openly,  after  the  manner  of  the  people. 

"It  is  about  Caterina,  eh  ?"  inquired  the  elder  man. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Mule,  with  a  sort  of  gasp.  If 
the  Mule  had  ever  been  afraid  in  his  life,  it  was  at 
that  moment — afraid,  if  you  please,  of  a  little  demo- 
crat of  a  schoolmaster  no  bigger  than  the  first-class 
boys,  blinking  through  a  pair  of  magnifying  spec- 
tacles, which  must  have  made  the  world  look  very 

153 


THE    MULE 

large,  if  one  could  judge  from  the  effect  that  they 
had  upon  his  eyes. 

The  schoolmaster  looked  up  towards  the  moun- 
tains, to  the  goats  poised  there  upon  the  broken 
ground,  seeking  a  scanty  herbage  in  the  crannies. 

"How  many  beasts  is  it  that  you  have — four  or 
five?"  he  inquired  kindly  enough,  after  a  moment, 
and  the  Mule  drew  a  deep  breath. 

''Five,"  he  replied;  and  added,  after  a  minute's 
deep  and  honest  thought,  "and  good  ones,  except 
Cristofero  Colon,  the  big  one.  He  eats  much,  and 
yet,  when  the  moment  comes" — he  paused  and  looked 
towards  the  mountains,  which  rose  like  a  wall  to  the 
south,  a  wall  that  the  Mule  must  daily  climb — "when 
the  moment  comes  he  will  sometimes  refuse — 
especially  in  an  east  wind." 

The  schoolmaster  smiled,  thinking  perhaps  of  that 
other  Cristofero  Colon  and  the  east  wind  that  blew 
him  to  immortal  fame. 

"And  Caterina,"  he  asked.  "What  does  she  think 
of  it?" 

"I  don't  know." 

The  schoolmaster  looked  at  his  companion  with 
an  upward  jerk  of  the  head.  It  was  evident  that 
he  thought  him  a  dull  fellow.  But  that  assuredly 
was  Caterina's  affair.  It  was,  on  the  other  hand, 
distinctly  the  affair  of  Caterina's  father  to  remember 
those  five  beasts  of  the  Mule's,  than  which  there  were 

154 


THE    MULE 

none  better  in  the  country-side — to  recollect  that  the 
Mule  himself  had  a  good  name  at  his  trade,  and  was 
trusted  by  the  authorities.  There  was  no  match  so 
good  in  all  the  valley,  and  certainly  none  to  compare 
with  this  dull  swain  in  the  accursed  village  of  San 
Celoni.  The  schoolmaster  never  spoke  of  the  village 
without  a  malediction.  He  had  been  planted  there 
in  his  youth  with  a  promise  of  promotion,  and  pro- 
motion had  never  come.  For  a  man  of  education 
it  was  exile — no  newspapers,  no  passing  travellers  at 
the  cafe.  The  nearest  town  was  twenty  miles  away 
over  the  Sierra  IS'evada,  and  Malaga — the  paved 
Paradise  of  his  rural  dreams — forty  rugged  miles 
to  the  south.  No  wonder  he  was  a  democrat,  this 
disappointed  man.  In  a  Republic  now,  such  as  his 
father  had  schemed  for  in  the  forties,  he  would  have 
succeeded.  A  Republic,  it  must  be  remembered,  be- 
ing a  community  in  which  every  man  is  not  only 
equal,  but  superior  to  his  neighbor. 

"You  don't  know?" 

"No,"  answered  the  Mule,  with  a  dull  look  of 
shame  at  his  own  faint-heartedness.  Moreover,  he 
was  assuredly  speaking  an  untruth.  The  man  who 
fears  to  inquire — knows. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  he  had  hardly  spoken  to 
Caterina.  Conversation  was  not  the  Mule's  strong 
point  He  had  exchanged  the  usual  greetings  with 
her  at  the  fountain  on  a  fiesta  day.    He  had  nodded 

155 


THE    MULE 

a  good-morning  to  her,  gruff  and  curt  (for  the  Mule 
had  no  manners),  more  times  than  he  could  count. 
And  Caterina  had  met  his  slow  glance  with  those 
solemn  eyes  of  hers,  and  that,  so  to  speak,  had  settled 
the  Mule's  business.  Just  as  it  would  have  settled 
the  business  of  five  out  of  six  men.  For  Caterina 
had  Moorish  eyes — dark  and  solemn  and  sad,  which 
said  a  hundred  things  that  Caterina  had  never 
thought  of — which  seemed  to  have  some  history  in 
them  that  could  hardly  have  been  Caterina's  history, 
for  she  was  only  seventeen.  Though,  as  to  this,  one 
cannot  always  be  sure.  Perhaps  the  history  was  all 
to  come.  Of  course  the  Mule  knew  none  of  these 
things.  He  was  a  hard-working,  open-air  Andalusian, 
and  only  knew  that  he  wanted  Caterina,  and,  as  the 
saying  is,  could  not  live  without  her.  Meantime  he 
lived  on  from  day  to  day  without  that  which  he 
wanted,  and  worked — just  as  the  reader  may  be  do- 
ing. That,  in  fact,  is  life — to  live  on  without  some- 
thing or  other,  and  work.  Than  which  there  is  one 
thing  worse,  namely,  to  live  on  and  be  idle. 

''But — "  said  the  schoolmaster,  slowly,  for  Anda- 
lusian tongues  are  slow,  if  the  knives  are  quick. 
"But  one  may  suppose  that  you  would  make  her  a 
good  husband." 

And  a  sudden  gruff  laugh  was  the  answer.  A 
woman  would  have  understood  it;  but  Caterina  had 
no  mother.     And  the  schoolmaster  was  thinking  of 

156 


THE    MULE 

the  five  beasts  and  the  postal  appointment.  The 
muleteer's  face  slowly  sank  back  into  stolidity  again. 
The  light  that  had  flashed  across  it  had  elevated  that 
dull  physiognomy  for  a  moment  only. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Mule  slowly,  at  length. 

"You  can  read  and  write?"  inquired  the  man  of 
education. 

"Yes,  but  not  quickly !" 

"That,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  "is  a  matter  of 
practice.     You  should  read  the  newspapers." 

Which  was  bad  advice,  for  the  Mule  was  simple 
and  might  have  believed  what  he  read. 

The  conversation  was  a  long  one.  That  is  to  say, 
it  lasted  a  long  time ;  until,  indeed,  the  sun  had  set 
and  the  mountains  had  faded  from  blue  to*  gray, 
while  the  far-off  snow  peaks  reared  their  shadowy 
heads  into  the  very  stars.  The  schoolmaster  had  a 
few  more  questions  to  ask,  and  the  Mule  answered 
them  in  monosyllables.  He  was  tired,  perhaps,  after 
his  day's  journey;  for  he  had  come  the  northward 
trip,  which  was  always  the  hardest,  entailing  as  it 
did  a  rocky  climb  on  the  sunny  side  of  the  mountains. 
He  had  nothing  to  say  in  his  own»favor,  which  is  not 
such  a  serious  matter  as  some  might  suspect.  The 
world  does  not  always  take  us  at  our  own  valuation, 
which  is  just  as  well — for  the  world. 

Indeed,  the  schoolmaster  only  succeeded  in  con- 
firming his  own  suspicion  that  this  was  nothing  but 

157 


THE    MULE 

a  dull  fellow,  and  he  finally  had  to  dismiss  the  Mule, 
who  had  not  even  the  savoir  faire  to  perceive  when 
a  conversation  was  ended. 

"Vede7'emos"  he  said,  judicially,  "we  shall  see." 

And  the  Mule  went  away  with  that  heaviness  of 
heart  which  must  surely  follow  a  mean  action.  For 
he  knew  that  in  applying  to  Caterina's  father  he  had 
placed  Caterina  at  a  disadvantage.  The  schoolmas- 
ter, be  it  remembered,  was  a  democrat,  and  such  are 
usually  autocrats  in  their  own  house.  He  was,  more- 
over, a  selfish  man,  and  had  long  cherished  the  con- 
viction that  he  was  destined  to  be  great.  He  thought 
that  he  was  an  orator,  and  that  gift  which  is  called 
by  those  who  do  not  possess  it  the  gift  of  the  gab, 
is  the  most  dangerous  that  a  man  can  have.  There 
was  no  one  in  San  Celoni  to  listen  to  him.  And  if 
Caterina  were  married  and  he  were  a  free  man,  he 
could  give  up  the  school  and  go  to  Malaga,  where 
assuredly  he  could  make  a  name. 

So  the  schoolmaster  told  Caterina  the  next  morn- 
ing that  she  was  to  marry  the  Mule — that  the  matter 
was  settled.  The  dusky  roses  faded  from  Caterina's 
cheek  for  a  moment,  and  her  great  dark  eyes  had  a 
hunted  look.  That  look  had  often  come  there  of  late. 
The  priest  had  noticed  it,  and  one  or  two  old  women. 

"Almost  as  if  she  were  in  the  mountains,"  they 
said,  which  is  a  local  polite  way  of  referring  to  those 
unfortunate   gentlemen,    who,    for   some   reason   or 

,158 


THE    MULE 

another,  do  not  desire  to  meet  the  Giiardia  Civil,  and 
haunt  the  upper  slopes  of  the  Sierra  ISTevada,  where 
they  live,  as  live  the  beasts  of  the  forest,  seeking 
their  meat  from  God,  while  the  charitable,  and,  it 
is  even  whispered,  the  priest  or  the  Alcalde  himself, 
will  at  times  lay  an  old  coat  or  a  loaf  of  bread  at  the 
roadside  above  the  village,  and  never  inquire  who 
comes  to  take  it. 

The  Mule  himself,  it  is  known,  buys  more  matches 
than  he  can  ever  burn,  so  much  as  six  boxes  at  a 
time,  of  those  cheap  sulphurous  wooden  matches  that 
are  made  at  Barcelona,  and  the  next  day  will  buy 
more.  The  Mule,  however,  is  such  a  silent  man  that 
those  who  are  "in  the  mountains"  make  no  conceal- 
ment with  him,  but  meet  him  (wild  unkempt  figures 
that  appear  quietly  from  behind  a  great  rock)  as  he 
passes  on  his  journeys,  and  ask  him  if  he  has  a  match 
upon  him.  They  sometimes  look  at  the  mail-bags 
slung  across  the  stubborn  back  of  Cristofero  Colon 
with  eyes  that  have  the  hunted,  hungry  look  which 
Caterina  has. 

"There  is,  perhaps,  money  in  there,"  they  say. 

"Perhaps,"  answers  the  Mule,  without  after- 
thought. 

"It  may  be  a  thousand  pesetas." 

"Perhaps." 

And  the  Mule,  who  is  brave  enough  where  Cate- 
rina is  not  concerned,  quietly  turns  his  back  upon 

159 


THE    MULE 

a  man  who  carries  a  gun,  and  follows  Cristofero 
Colon.  It  sometimes  happens  that  he  trudges  his 
nineteen  miles  without  meeting  any  one,  with  no 
companion  but  his  mules  and  his  dog.  This  last- 
named  animal  is  such  as  may  be  met  in  Spain  or 
even  in  France,  at  any  street  comer — not  a  retriever, 
nor  a  foxhound,  nor  anything  at  all  but  a  dog  as 
distinguished  from  a  cat  or  a  goat,  living  a  troubled 
and  uncertain  life  in  a  world  that  will  always  cringe 
to  a  pedigree,  but  has  no  respect  for  nondescripts. 
It  was  on  these  journeys  that  the  Mule  had  so  much 
leisure  for  thought.  For  even  he  could  think,  accord- 
ing to  his  dim  lights.  He  was  only  conscious,  how- 
ever, of  an  ever-increasing  feeling  of  a  sickness — a 
physical  nausea  (for  he  was,  of  course,  a  mere  earthly 
creature) — at  the  thought  of  a  possible  life  without 
Cater ina.  And  it  was  at  the  end  of  a  grilling  day, 
that  the  schoolmaster  beckoned  to  him  as  he  passed 
the  school-house,  and  told  him  that  it  was  settled — 
that  Caterina  would  marry  him. 

"Would  you  like  to  see  her?  She  is  indoors." 
inquired  the  bearer  of  the  tidings. 

"No,"  answered  the  Mule,  after  a  dull  pause. 
"E"ot  to-night.     I  have  my  mail-bags,  as  you  see." 

And  he  clattered  on  down  the  narrow  street  with 
a  dazed  look,  as  if  the  brightness  of  Paradise  had 
flashed  across  his  vision. 

So  it  was  settled.     Caterina  and  the  Mule  were 

160 


THE    MULE 

to  be  married,  and  there  had  been  no  love-making, 
the  old  women  said.  "And  what,"  they  asked,  "is 
youth  for,  if  there  is  to  be  no  love-making  ?"  "And 
God  knows  they  were  right,"  said  the  priest,  who 
heard  the  remark,  and  who  was  a  very  old  man  him- 
self. 

Two  days  after  that,  the  Mule  met  Caterina  as 
she  was  going  to  the  fountain.  He  said  Good  morn- 
ing. They  both  stopped,  and  the  Mule  looked  into 
Caterina's  eyes  and  had  nothing  to  say.  For  he  saw 
something  there  which  he  did  not  understand,  and 
which  made  him  feel  that  he  was  no  better  than 
Cristofero  Colon,  scraping  and  stumbling  up  the 
narrow  street  with  the  mail-bags,  in  such  a  vile 
temper,  by  the  way,  that  the  Mule  had  to  hurry  after 
him. 

"It  is  a  slow  business,"  said  the  schoolmaster  to 
Sergeant  Nolveda,  of  the  Guardia  Civil,  who  lived 
in  San  Celoni  and  trained  one  young  recruit  after 
another  according  to  the  regulations  of  this  admir- 
able corps.  For  one  never  meets  a  Guardia  Civil 
alone,  but  always  in  company — an  old  head  and  a 
pair  of  young  legs.  "A  slow  business.  He  is  not 
a  lover  such  as  I  should  choose  were  I  a  pretty  girl 
like  Caterina;  but  one  can  never  tell  with  women 
—eh?" 

Indeed,  matters  did  not  progress  very  quickly. 
The  Mule  appeared  to  take  so  much  for  granted — to 

161 


THE    MULE 

take  as  said  so  much  that  had  not  been  said.  Even 
the  love-making  seemed  to  him  to  have  been  under- 
stood, and  he  appeared  to  be  quite  content  to  go 
his  daily  journeys  with  the  knowledge  that  Caterina 
was  to  be  his  wife.  There  were,  of  course,  others  in 
the  valley  who  would  have  been  glad  enough  to 
marry  Caterina,  but  she  had  shown  no  preference 
for  any  of  these  swains,  who  knew  themselves 
inferior,  in  a  worldly  sense,  to  the  Mule.  So  the 
whole  country-side  gradually  accustomed  itself  also 
to  the  fact  that  Caterina  was  to  marry  Quereno. 
The  news  even  spread  to  the  mountains.  The  Mule 
heard  of  it  there  one  day  when  he  had  accomplished 
fourteen  daily  journeys  to  the  accompaniment  of 
this  new  happiness. 

As  he  was  nearing  the  summit  of  the  pass  he  saw 
Pedro  Casavel,  who  had  been  "in  the  mountains" 
three  years,  seated  on  a  stone  awaiting  him.  Pedro 
Casavel  was  a  superior  man,  who  had  injured  another 
in  a  dispute  originating  in  politics.  His  adversary 
was  an  old  man,  now  stricken  with  a  mortal  disease. 
And  it  was  said  that  Pedro  Casavel  could  safely 
return  to  the  village,  where  his  father  owned  a  good 
house  and  some  land.  His  enemy  had  forgiven  him, 
and  would  not  prosecute.  But  Casavel  lingered  in 
the  mountains,  distrusting  so  Christian  a  spirit. 

He  rose  as  the  Mule  slowly  approached.  He  car- 
ried a  gun  always,  and  was  more  daring  than  his 

162 


THE    MULE 

companions  in  retreat.  The  Mule  mechanically 
sought  in  his  jacket  pocket  for  a  box  of  matches, 
which  he  knew  would  be  a  welcome  gift,  and  held 
them  out  silently  as  he  neared  Casavel.  But  Casa- 
vel  did  not  take  them. 

"I  hear  that  you  are  to  marry  Caterina,"  he  said, 
with  half-disdainful  laugh.     "Is  it  true?" 

"It  is  true/'  answered  the  Mule. 

"If  you  do,"  cried  the  other,  passionately,  with  a 
bang  on  the  stock  of  his  gun  that  startled  Cristofero 
Colon,  "if  you  do,  1  will  shoot  you." 

The  Mule  smiled  slowly,  just  as  he  smiled  when 
the  people  cried  "Ai-i-ieah"  as  he  passed  them. 

"I  am  going  to  marry  her,"  he  said,  with  a  shake 
of  the  head.  And  mechanically  he  handed  the  other 
the  box  of  matches,  which  Casavel  took,  though  his 
eyes  still  flashed  with  anger  and  that  terrible  jeal- 
ousy which  flows  in  Southern  blood.  Then  the  Mule 
walked  slowly  on,  while  his  dog  shambled  after  him, 
turning  back  once  or  twice  to  glance  apprehensively 
at  the  man  left  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  rocky 
path.  Dogs,  it  is  known,  have  a  keener  scent  than 
human  beings — perhaps,  also,  they  have  a  keener 
vision,  and  see  more  written  on  the  face  of  man  than 
we  can  perceive. 

The  Mule  turned  at  the  summit  of  the  pass,  and 
looked  down,  as  he  always  did,  at  the  village  where 
Caterina  lived,  before  turning  his  face  to  the  sunnier 

163 


THE    MULE 

southern  slope.  He  saw  Casavel  standing  where  he 
had  left  him,  holding  up  the  gun  with  a  threatening 
gesture.  The  Mule  had  no  eye  for  effect.  He  did 
not  even  shrug  his  shoulders. 

It  was  finally  the  schoolmaster  who  hurried  mat- 
ters to  their  natural  conclusion.  By  his  advice,  the 
Mule,  who  had  hitherto  lodged  in  the  house  of  the 
postmaster,  rented  a  cottage  of  his  own  and  bought 
some  simple  furniture.  He  consulted  Caterina  on 
several  points,  and  she  was  momentarily  aroused 
from  a  sort  of  apathy  which  had  come  over  her  of 
late,  by  a  very  feminine  interest  in  the  kitchen 
fittings.  The  best  that  could  be  said  for  Caterina 
was  that  she  was  resigned.  As  for  the  Mule^  like 
the  animal  from  which  he  had  acquired  his  habits 
of  thought  as  well  as  his  name,  he  seemed  to  expect 
but  little  from  life.  So,  one  morning  before  depart- 
ing on  his  daily  journey,  the  Mule  was  unobtrusively 
married  to  Caterina  in  the  little  pink  stucco  chapel 
that  broods  over  the  village  of  San  Celoni  like  a  hen. 
over  her  chickens.  And  Cristofero  Colon  and  the 
dog  waited  outside. 

It  was  a  commonplace  ceremony,  and  at  its  con- 
clusion the  bridegroom  trudged  off  up  the  village 
street  behind  his  mail-bags.  The  Mule,  it  must  be 
admitted,  was  a  deadly  dull  person — y  nada  mas — 
and  nothing  more,  as  his  fond  father-in-law  observed 
at  the  cafe  that  same  morning. 

164 


THE    MULE 

But  when  lie  returned  on  the  second  evening,  he 
made  it  evident  that  he  had  been  thinking  of  Caterina 
in  his  absence,  for  he  gave  her,  half  shyly  and  very 
awkwardly,  some  presents  that  he  had  brought  from 
a  larger  village  than  San  Celoni,  which  he  had  passed 
on  his  way.  There  were  shops  in  the  village,  and 
it  was  held  in  the  district  that  articles  bought  there 
were  of  superior  quality  to  such  as  came  even  from 
Granada  or  Malaga.  The  Mule  had  expended  nearly 
a  peseta  on  a  colored  kerchief  such  as  women  wear 
on  their  heads,  and  a  brooch  of  blue  glass. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Caterina,  taking  the  presents 
and  examining  them  with  bright  eyes.  She  stood 
before  him  in  a  girlish  attitude,  folding  the  kerchief 
across  her  hand,  and  holding  it  so  that  the  light  of 
their  new  lamp  fell  upon  it.     "It  is  very  pretty." 

The  Mule  had  washed  his  face  and  hands  at  the 
fountain,  as  he  came  into  San  Celoni,  remembering 
that  he  was  a  bridegroom.  He  stood,  sleek  and  sun- 
burnt, looking  down  at  her,  and,  if  he  had  only  had 
the  words,  the  love-making  might  have  commenced 
then  and  there,  at  a  point  where  the  world  says  it 
usually  ends. 

"There  was  nothing,"  he  said  slowly,  at  length, 

"in  the  shops  that  seemed  to  me  pretty  at  all " 

He  paused,  and  turned  away  to  lay  his  beret  aside, 
then  with  his  back  towards  her,  he  finished  the  sen- 
tence.    "Not  pretty  enough  for  you." 

165 


THE    MULE 

Caterina  winced,  as  if  he  had  hurt  instead  of 
pleased  her.  She  busied  herself  with  the  prepara- 
tions for  their  simple  supper,  and  the  Mule  sat  silently 
watching  her — as  happy,  perhaps,  in  his  dull  way, 
as  any  king  has  ever  been.  Then  suddenly  Caterina's 
fingers  began  to  falter,  and  she  placed  the  plates  on 
the  table  with  a  clatter,  as  if  her  eyes  were  blinded. 
She  hesitated,  and  with  a  sort  of  wail  of  despair, 
sat  down  and  hid  her  face  in  her  apron.  And  the 
Mule's  happiness  was  only  human  after  all,  for  it 
was  transformed  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  into 
abject  misery. 

He  sat  biting  his  lip,  and  looking  at  her  as  she 
sobbed.  Then  at  length  he  rose  slowly,  and,  going 
to  her,  laid  his  great,  solid,  heavy  hand  upon  her 
shoulder.  But  he  could  not  think  of  anything  to  say. 
He  could  only  meet  this  as  he  had  met  other  emer- 
gencies, with  that  silence  which  he  had  acquired 
from  the  dumb  beasts  amid  the  mountains. 

At  length,  after  a  long  pause,  he  spoke.  He  had 
detected  a  movement,  made  by  Caterina  and  in- 
stantly restrained,  to  withdraw  from  the  touch  of 
his  hand,  and  this  had  set  his  slow  brain  thinking. 
He  had  dealt  with  animals  more  than  with  men, 
and  was  less  slow  to  read  a  movement  than  to  under- 
stand a  word. 

''What  is  it  ?"  he  asked.  "Is  it  that  you  are  sorry 
you  married  me  ?" 

166 


THE    MULE 

And  Caterina,  who  belonged  to  a  people  saying 
yea,  yea,  and  nay,  nay,  nodded  her  head. 

"Why?"  asked  the  Mnle,  with  a  deadly  economy 
of  words.  And  she  did  not  answer  him.  "Is  it  be- 
cause— there  is  another  man?" 

It  was  known  in  the  valley  that  the  Mule  had 
never  used  his  knife,  not  even  in  self-defence.  Cate- 
rina did  not  dare,  however,  to  answer  him.  She  only 
whispered  a  prayer  to  the  Virgin. 

"Is  it  Pedro  Casavel  ?"  asked  the  Mule,  and  the 
question  brought  her  to  her  feet,  facing  him  with 
white  cheeks. 

"^Q — no — no!"  she  cried.  "What  made  you 
think  that?    Oh— no!" 

Woman-like,  she  thought  she  could  fool  him.  The 
Mule  turned  away  from  her  and  sat  down  again. 
Woman-like,  she  had  forgotten  her  own  danger  at 
the  mere  thought  that  Casavel  might  suffer. 

"And  he — in  the  mountains,"  said  the  Mule, 
thinking  aloud.  He  was  beginning  to  see  now,  at 
last,  when  it  was  too  late,  as  better  men  than  he  have 
done  before,  and  will  continue  to  do  hereafter. 
Caterina  could  not  have  held  out  as  an  objection  to 
her  marriage  the  fact  that  she  loved  a  man  who  was 
in  the  mountains.  The  schoolmaster  was  not  one 
to  listen  to  such  an  argument  as  that,  espe- 
cially from  a  girl  who  could  not  know  her  own 
mind.    For  the  schoolmaster  was,  despite  his  radical 

167 


THE    MULE 

tendencies,  bigoted  in  his  adherence  to  the  old  mis- 
takes. 

Caterina  might  have  told  the  Mule,  perhaps,  if  he 
had  asked  her ;  for  she  knew  that  he  was  gentle  even 
with  the  stubborn  Cristofero  Colon.  But  he  had  not 
asked  her,  failing  the  necessary  courage  to  face  the 
truth. 

It  was,  of  course,  the  woman  who  spoke  first,  in  a 
quiet  voice,  with  that  philosophy  of  life  which  is 
better  understood  by  women  than  by  men. 

"You  must,  at  all  events,  eat,"  she  said,  "after 
your  journey.     It  is  a  cocida  that  I  have  made." 

She  busied  herself  among  the  new  kitchen  uten- 
sils with  movements  hardly  yet  as  certain  as  the 
movements  of  a  woman,  but  rather  those  of  a  child, 
hasty  and  yet  deft  enough.  The  Mule  watched  her, 
seated  clumsily,  with  round  shoulders,  in  the  atti- 
tude of  a  field  laborer  indoors.  When  the  steaming 
dish,  which  smelt  of  onions,  was  set  upon  the  table, 
he  rose  and  dragged  his  chair  forward.  He  did  not 
think  of  setting  a  chair  in  place  for  Caterina,  who 
brought  one  for  herself,  and  they  sat  down — to  their 
wedding  feast. 

They  appeared  to  accept  the  situation,  as  the  poor 
and  the  hard-worked  have  to  accept  the  many  draw- 
backs to  their  lot,  without  further  comment.  The 
Mule  cultivated  a  more  complete  silence  than  hith- 
erto, but  he  was  always  kind  to  Caterina,  treating 

168 


THE    MULE 

her  as  he  would  one  of  his  beasts  which  had  been 
injured,  with  a  mutual  silent  acceptance  of  the  fact 
that  she  had  a  sorrow,  a  weak  spot  as  it  were,  which 
must  not  be  touched.  With  a  stolid  tact  he  never 
mentioned  the  mountains,  or  those  unfortunate  men 
who  dwelt  therein.  If  he  met  Pedro  Casavel  he  did 
not  mention  the  encounter  to  Caterina.  JS'either  did 
he  make  any  reference  to  Caterina  when  he  gave 
Pedro  a  box  of  matches.  Indeed,  he  rarely  spoke  to 
Casavel  at  all,  but  nodded  and  passed  on  his  way.  If 
Casavel  approached  from  behind  he  stopped  without 
looking  round,  and  waited  for  him  just  as  his  mules 
stopped,  and  as  mules  always  do  when  they  hear  any 
one  approaching  from  behind. 

So  time  went  on,  and  the  schoolmaster,  resigning 
his  situation,  departed  to  Malaga,  where,  by  the 
way,  he  came  to  no  good ;  for  of  talking  there  is  too 
much  in  this  world,  and  a  wise  man  would  not  say 
thank  you  for  the  gift  of  the  gab.  The  man  whom 
Pedro  Casavel  had  injured  died  quietly  in  his  bed. 
Caterina  went  about  her  daily  work  with  her  un- 
spoken history  in  her  eyes,  while  Pedro  him- 
self no  doubt  ate  his  heart  out  in  the  moun- 
tains. That  he  ate  it  out  in  silence  could  scarcely 
be,  for  the  tale  got  about  the  valley  somehow 
that  he  and  Caterina  had  been  lovers  before  his  mis- 
fortune. 

And  as  for  the  Mule,  he  trudged  his  daily  score  of 

169 


THE    MULE 

miles,  and  said  nothing  to  any  man.  It  would  be 
hard  to  say  whether  he  noticed  that  Pedro  Casavel, 
when  he  showed  himself  now  in  the  mountains,  ap- 
peared rather  ostentatiously  without  his  gun — harder 
still  to  guess  whether  the  Mule  knew  that  as  he 
passed  across  the  summit  Casavel  would  sometimes 
lie  amid  the  rocks,  and  cover  him  with  that  same 
grm  for  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  slowly  following  his 
movements  with  the  steady  barrel  so  that  the  mail- 
carrier's  life  hung,  as  it  were,  on  the  touch  of  a  trig- 
ger for  minutes  together.  Pedro  Casavel  seemed  to 
shift  his  hiding-place,  as  if  he  were  seeking  to  per- 
fect certain  details  of  light  and  range  and  elevation. 
Perhaps  it  was  only  a  grim  enjoyment  which  he 
gathered  from  thus  holding  the  Mule's  life  in  his 
hand  for  five  or  six  minutes  two  or  three  times  a 
week;  perhaps,  after  all,  he  was  that  base  thing,  a 
coward,  and  lacked  the  nerve  to  pull  a  trigger — 
to  throw  a  bold  stake  upon  life's  table  and  stand  by 
the  result.  Each  day  he  crept  a  little  nearer,  grew 
more  daring;  until  he  noticed  a  movement  made  by 
the  lank,  ill-fed  dog,  that  seemed  to  indicate  that 
the  beast,  at  all  events,  knew  of  his  presence  in  the 
rocks  above  the  footpath. 

Then  one  day,  when  there  was  no  wind,  and  the 
light  was  good  and  the  range  had  been  ascertained, 
Pedro  Casavel  pulled  the  trigger.  The  report  and  a 
puff  of  bluish  smoke  floated  up  to  heaven,  where  they 

170 


THE    MULE 

were  doubtless  taken  note  of,  and  the  Mule  fell  for- 
ward on  his  face. 

"I  have  it,"  he  muttered,  in  the  curt,  Andalusian 
dialect.    And  then  and  there  the  Mule  died. 

It  happened  to  be  Cristofero  Colon's  day  to  do  the 
southward  journey,  and  despite  the  lank  dog's  most 
strenuous  efforts,  he  continued  his  way,  gravely  car- 
rying the  dusty  mail-bags  to  their  destination.  The 
dog  remained  behind  with  the  Mule,  pessimistically 
sniffing  at  his  clothing,  recognizing  no  doubt  that 
which,  next  to  an  earthquake,  is  the  easiest  thing  to 
recognize  in  nature.  Then  at  length  he  turned  home- 
wards, towards  San  Celoni,  with  hanging  ears  and 
a  loose  tail.  He  probably  suspected  that  the  Mule 
had  long  stood  between  him  and  starvation — that 
none  other  would  take  his  place  or  remember  to  feed 
a  dog  of  so  unattractive  an  appearance  and  no  pedi- 
gree whatever. 

Caterina  did  not  expect  the  Mule  to  return  that 
evening,  which  was  his  night  away  from  home  at 
Puente  de  Rey.  She  hurried  to  the  door,  therefore, 
when  she  heard,  after  nightfall,  the  clatter  of  hoofs 
in  the  narrow  street,  and  the  shuffling  of  iron  heels 
at  her  very  step.  She  opened  the  door,  and  in  the 
bright  moonlight  saw  the  cocked-hats  and  long  cloaks 
of  the  Guardia  Civil.  There  were  other  men  be- 
hind them,  and  a  beast  shuffled  his  feet  as  he  was 
bidden  to  stand  still. 

171 


THE    MULE 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked.  "An  accident  to  the 
Mule?" 

"Not  exactly  that,"  replied  the  Sergeant,  grimly, 
as  he  made  way  for  two  men  who  approached  care- 
fully, carrying  a  heavy  weight.  It  was  the  Mule 
whom  they  brought  in  and  laid  on  the  table. 

"Shot,"  said  the  Sergeant,  curtly.  He  had  heard 
the  gossip  of  the  valley,  and  doubted  whether  Cate- 
rina  would  need  much  pity  or  consideration.  His 
companion  in  arms  now  appeared,  leading  by  the 
sleeve  one  who  was  evidently  his  captive.  Caterina 
looked  up  and  met  his  eyes.  It  was  Pedro  Casavel, 
sullen,  ill-clad,  half  a  barbarian,  with  the  seal  of  the 
mountains  upon  him.  "The  mail-bags  are  missing," 
pursued  the  Sergeant,  who  in  a  way  was  the  law- 
giver of  the  valley.  "Robbery  was  doubtless  the  ob- 
ject. We  shall  find  the  mail-bags  among  the  rocks. 
The  Mule  must  have  shown  fight ;  for  his  pistol  was 
in  his  pocket  with  one  barrel  discharged." 

As  he  spoke  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  Mule's 
broad  chest  without  heeding  the  stained  shirt.  That 
stain  was  no  new  sight  to  an  old  soldier. 

"Robbery,"  he  repeated,  with  a  glance  at  Casavel 
and  Caterina,  who  stood  one  on  each  side  of  the  table 
that  bore  such  a  grim  burden,  and  looked  at  each 
other.  "Robbery  and  murder.  So  we  brought  Pedro 
Casavel,  whose  hiding-place  we  have  known  these 
last  two  years,  with  us — on  the  chance,  eh  ? — on  the 

172 


THE   MULE 

chance.  It  was  the  dog  that  came  and  told  us.  Who- 
ever shot  the  man  should  have  shot  the  dog  too — for 
safety's  sake." 

As  the  Sergeant  spoke,  he  mechanically  made  sure 
that  the  Mule's  pockets  were  empty.  Suddenly  he 
stopped,  and  withdrew  a  folded  paper  from  the  in- 
side pocket  of  the  jacket.  He  turned  towards  the 
lamp  to  read  the  writing  on  it.  It  was  the  Mule's 
writing.  The  Sergeant  turned,  after  a  moment's 
thought,  and  faced  Casavel  again. 

"You  are  free  to  go,  Pedro,"  he  said.  "I  have 
made  a  mistake,  and  I  ask  your  pardon." 

He  held  out  the  paper,  which,  however,  Casavel 
did  not  take,  but  stood  stupidly  staring,  as  if  he  did 
not  understand. 

Then  the  Sergeant  turned  to  the  lamp  again.  He 
unfolded  the  paper,  which  was  crumpled  as  if  with 
long  friction  in  the  pocket,  and  read  aloud — 

"Let  no  one  be  accused  of  my  death.  It  is  I, 
who,  owing  to  private  trouble,  shall  shoot  myself. 
Juan  Quereno,  so-called  the  'Mule.'  " 


173 


IN    LOVE   AND   WAR 


IX 

IN   LOVE   AKD   WAR 

"Secret  de  deux,  secret  de  Dieu." 

"Guess  anybody  could  be  a  soldier  and  swing  a 
sword,  while  it  takes  brains  to  make  a  doctor." 

!N^ow  I  was  a  doctor,  and  a  very  young  one  in 
those  days,  new  to  the  regiment  and  conscious  of 
my  inferiority  to  its  merest  subaltern.  The  young 
person  who  made  the  above  observation  was,  more- 
over, pretty,  with  dark  eyes  and  the  most  bewitching 
lips  that  ever  gave  voice  to  an  American  accent.  My 
heart  was  young,  and  therefore  easily  stirred  by  such 
vanities — nothing  stirs  it  now  but  the  cry  of  the 
bugle  and  the  sullen  roar  that  rises  from  the  ranks 
when,  at  last,  T.  Atkins  is  allowed  to  get  to  the 
bayonet. 

We  were  sitting  in  the  veranda  of  the  residency 
in  the  capital  of  a  northern  tributary  state  which 
need  not  be  further  specified  here.  The  Rajah  was 
in  difficulties  and  unable,  without  our  aid,  to  dis- 
pose of  a  claimant  to  his  throne,  whose  hereditary 

xn 


IN   LOVE    AND    WAR 

Tight  originated  somewhere  in  the  lifetime  of  St. 
Paul.  General  Elias  J.  Watson,  of  Boston,  U.S.A., 
was  travelling  for  the  enlargement  of  his  own  and 
his  daughter's  mind. 

"Pa  is  just  going  to  write  a  book  about  things  in 
general,"  explained  Miss  Bertha  Watson,  with  a 
wise  little  smile,  when  her  father's  thirst  for  in- 
formation became  irksome. 

Hearing  in  Simla  that  an  expeditionary  force  was 
about  to  be  despatched  to  the  assistance  of  the  Rajah 
of  Oadpur,  General  Watson  hastened  thither.  He 
had  letters  of  introduction  from  sundry  persons  who 
wished  to  get  rid  of  him  to  sundry  others  who  had 
no  desire  to  assist  in  any  way.  But  the  old  man's 
naivete  and  characteristically  simple  interest  in  de- 
tails soon  made  their  way,  while  Bertha's  wise  little 
smile  carried  all  before  it.  It  somehow  conveyed 
the  impression  that  she  knew  a  thing  or  two  of  which 
we  were  ignorant,  and  like  one  man  we  fell  to  de- 
siring knowledge  of  those  things.  I  was  nowhere. 
Doctors  never  are  anywhere  in  regimental  competi- 
tions, for  they  are  usually,  like  myself,  deadly  poor. 
Sometimes  Bertha  danced  with  me,  as  on  this  oc- 
casion, at  the  impromptu  entertainments  given  by 
the  Resident. 

"Say,  shall  we  have  another  ?"  she  observed  before 
my  heart  had  recovered  from  the  effect  of  the  last 
remark.     And  she  handed  me  the  stationery  depart- 

178 


IN    LOVE    AND    WAR 

ment  envelope  which  served  as  a  programme  on  these 
occasions. 

I  fumbled  for  my  pencil  in  the  seventh  heaven  of 
joy.  I  had  read  somewhere  that  women  sometimes 
give  their  hearts  to  small  and  insignificant  men.  But 
it  seemed  unlikely  that  this  referred  to  such  women 
as  Bertha  Watson.  I  had  never  dreamt  of  cutting 
out  the  other  men :  Major  Le  Mesurier-Groselin,  who 
had  money,  for  instance,  or  Austin  Graham — especi- 
ally Austin  Graham.  There  had  been  a  rumor  in 
the  air — planted  there,  no  doubt,  by  some  of  the 
women  who  have  a  marvellous  scent  for  a  light  trail 
— that  there  was  an  understanding  between  Graham 
and  Bertha.  I  noticed  that  she  never  looked  at  him 
with  her  bewitching  little  smile  as  she  did  at  the 
rest  of  us.  But  that  was  all  I  could  detect.  Perhaps 
she  thought  that  he  was  wiser  than  herself.  Per- 
haps, moreover,  she  was  right;  for  Graham  was  the 
wisest  man  up  there,  and  I  think  the  bravest.  He 
meant  business,  he  told  me,  and  had  come  to  make 
his  name  in  this  little  war. 

He  was  a  quiet-going,  fair  man,  with  that  ines- 
timable advantage  of  looking  at  all  times  exactly 
what  he  was,  namely,  a  gentleman  by  long  descent. 
He  was  a  great  friend  of  mine,  and  we  shared  quar- 
ters in  a  sort  of  gatehouse  to  the  Rajah's  palace,  where 
I  knew  that  he  worked  night  and  day,  for  he  was 
chief  of  the  staff  and  had  a  great  scheme  of  crush- 

179 


IN   LOVE    AND    WAR 

ing  the  insurrection,  at  one  blow,  by  a  surprise 
assault  of  the  fortified  town  twenty  miles  away, 
where  the  claimant  lay  with  his  forces. 

"Seems  to  me,"  said  Bertha,  when  I  had  duly 
inscribed  my  name  on  the  Government  envelope, 
"that  this  is  what  you  call  a  demonstration  in  force. 
This  is  not  serious  war.  You  are  not  going  to  fight 
at  all.  Things  are  much  too  quiet  and  orderly — 
with  church  parade,  and  soirees-dansantes,  and  visit- 
ing cards." 

She  looked  at  me,  and  if  I  had  had  any  secrets  I 
should  have  told  them  to  her  then  and  there. 

"Then  you  think  there'll  be  fighting,"  she  added, 
with  a  calmness  of  demeanor  which  was  in  itself 
unusual  and  fascinating  enough. 

She  had  no  reason  to  arrive  at  such  a 
conclusion,  for  I  had  not  uttered  a  sound.  I 
probably  did  not  know,  however,  in  those  days  that 
the  lies  requiring  the  minutest  care  are  the  unspoken 
ones. 

"You  see,  I'm  only  a  doctor,"  I  answered,  "and, 
strange  to  say,  the  Brigadier  has  not  as  yet  taken  me 
into  his  confidence." 

"I  know  a  lot  about  war,"  she  went  on  after  a  mo- 
mentary pause.  She  appeared  to  have  some  misgiv- 
ing about  one  of  the  buttons  on  her  long  glove  which 
she  had  undone  and  was  tentatively  tugging  at  the 
thread. 

180 


IN   LOVE    AND    WAR 

"May  I  button  that  ?"  I  said  hurriedly  in  my  ex- 
treme youth,  and  with  a  palpitating  courage. 

"Why,  yes — if  you  have  any  ambition  that  way." 
And  she  extended  her  arm  towards  me.  "Now,"  she 
said,  with  a  grave  air  of  confidence  which  I  now  dis- 
trust whenever  it  is  tried  upon  me,  "if  I  was  the  man 
in  charge  of  this  show,  I  would  just  go  on  like  this, 
giving  balls  and  private  theatricals  and  exchanging 
visiting  cards.  This  place  is  full  of  spies  of  course. 
The  very  servants  who  wait  on  the  General  probably 
read  all  his  letters  and  send  copies  of  them  to  the 
enemy.  The  plan  of  campaign  is  probably  as  well 
known  to  What-'em-you-call-it  Khan,  as  it  is  to  the 
Brigadier." 

"No,  I'm  sure  it  isn't,"  I  interrupted;  "because 
Graham  keeps  it  locked  up  in  a  medical-comfort  chest 
with  his  dressing-case  locked,  which  we  screwed  on 
ourselves." 

"Ah,  is  that  so,  doctor?  Well,  you  can't  be  too 
careful,  can  you?  As  I  was  saying,  I  should  convey 
to  the  spies  the  impression  that  it  was  only  a  demon- 
stration in  force.  Then  one  night  I  should  start  off 
quietly,  march  twenty  miles,  and  give  What-'em-you- 
call-it  Khan,  Hail  Columbia  before  sunrise." 

She  looked  at  me,  gave  a  knowing  little  nod  of  the 
head,  and  began  fanning  herself. 

"That  is  my  plan  of  campaign,"  she  said.  "You 
know  Pa  is  here  on  purpose  to  see  the  British  soldier 

181 


m   LOVE    AND    WAR 

fight.  We  have  been  waiting  here  a  month  now,  and 
I  hope  you  are  going  to  ring  up  the  curtain  soon.  Pa 
has  theories  about  the  British  soldier,  and  although 
he  is  a  General,  you  know  he  has  never  seen  a  fight. 
I  tell  him  if  I  was  a  General  who  hadn't  seen  a  fight, 
I'd  just  go  out  and  sell  myself  cheap !    What  ?" 

"mthing." 

"I  guess  you  spoke." 

"I  said  you'd  probably  do  that  at  any  rate." 

"]^ot  cheap,"  she  answered  gravely,  and  then  we 
changed  the  subject.  So  far  as  I  recollect  we  returned 
to  the  discussion  of  doctors  and  their  trade,  and  before 
long  I  had  the  opportunity  of  airing  my  special  hobby 
at  that  time — the  study  of  native  drugs.  Miss  Wat- 
son was  deeply  interested — at  least,  she  made  me 
think  so,  and  before  we  parted  I  had  promised  to  send 
round  to  her  "diggings,"  as  she  called  them,  a  bottle 
of  a  perfectly  harmless  narcotic  which  I  had  made 
up  for  the  use  of  persons  suffering  from  sea-sickness 
or  toothache.  I  use  it  still,  and  have  some  always  by 
me  on  service  in  a  bottle  labelled  "Bertha,"  for  there 
is,  after  all,  something  in  a  name. 

I  went  home  to  my  quarters  rather  thoughtful  that 
night;  for  Bertha  Watson's  plan  of  campaign  was 
Austin  Graham's  plan  of  campaign,  and  I  knew  that 
Graham  was  not  the  man  to  divulge  so  much  as  a  hint 
of  this  secret.  I  know  now  that  if  a  woman  loves  a 
man  she  knows  much  that  he  never  tells  her,  but  I 

182 


IN    LOVE    AXD    WAR 

was  ignorant  of  this  and  many  other  matters  at  the 
time  when  I  made  Bertha's  acquaintance. 

The  days  dragged  on  and  we  seemed  to  be  no  nearer 
solving  the  Rajah's  difficulties.  There  were  at  that 
time  no  native  newspapers,  and  bazaar  gossip,  which 
is  by  the  way  surer  and  speedier  than  the  most  en- 
lightened press,  made  up  for  the  want.  Bazaar  gossip 
held  much  the  same  opinion  as  Bertha  Watson — 
namely,  that  we  were  only  a  demonstration  in  force. 
This  opinion  gained  ground  daily,  and  began  like  a 
hardy  weed  to  throw  out  tendrils  in  the  shape  of  de- 
tails. We  were  afraid  of  the  claimant  to  the  throne, 
it  seemed.  We  had  quarrelled  with  the  Rajah,  and 
would  not  risk  a  defeat  on  his  account. 

Austin  Graham  came  and  went.  I  sometimes 
found  mysterious  natives  waiting  for  him  in  our 
quarters.  One  of  these  natives  spoke  Hindustanee 
with  a  faint  Scotch  accent,  and  laughed  when  I  told 
him  so. 

"I'm  all  right  in  the  dialects  though,"  he  said,  in 
Glasgow  English,  and  asked  for  a  cigarette.  We  sat 
and  talked  for  half  an  hour  awaiting  Graham's  ar- 
rival, but  he  never  told  me  who  he  was. 

One  night,  about  midnight,  I  was  aroused  by  Le 
Mesurier-Groselin,  who  was  in  full  fighting  kit  and 
had  a  queer  light  in  his  eyes  which  was  new  to  me, 
though  heaven  and  the  Horse  Guards  know  that  I  have 
seen  it  often  enough  since. 

183 


IN   LOVE   AND    WAR 

*'Get  up — Sawbones!"  said  Le  Mesurier-Groselin. 
"You'll  be  wanted  at  any  rate,  but  now  I  want  you 
badly.  We're  just  off  to  smoke  the  old  Khan  out, 
and  something  has  gone  wrong  with  Graham.  For 
God's  sake,  man,  hurry  up !  It  will  be  a  pretty  fight, 
and  I  would  not  miss  it  for  worlds." 

I  looked  at  Le  Mesurier-Groselin  as  I  hauled  on  my 
clothes.  He  had  eight  thousand  a  year,  an  Elizabeth- 
an manor  in  England,  and  the  certainty  of  a  baro- 
netcy ;  but  the  thought  of  these  things  never  brought 
to  his  eyes  the  light  that  was  there  now. 

"What  is  wrong  with  Graham  ?" 

"I  don't  know — wish  I  did.  Can't  move  him. 
Seems  quite  stupid  or  dead  drunk,"  answered  Le 
Mesurier-Groselin,  handing  me  my  belt. 

We  hurried  upstairs  to  the  room  occupied  by  Aus- 
tin Graham,  and  there  found  him  lying  on  the  bed 
with  his  eyes  almost,  but  not  quite,  shut. 

"Where  was  he  to-night — dining  with  you  at 
mess  ?"  I  asked,  raising  one  heavy  lid  with  my  finger. 

"No,  he  dined  with  the  Watsons." 

"When  did  you  last  see  him  ?" 

"About  ten  o'clock  at  my  quarters.  He  was  coming 
here  to  change  in  time  for  the  assembly  at  eleven 
forty-five — the  column  is  just  marching.  I  came  here 
to  hurry  him  up  and  found  him  like  this.  The  whole 
attack  is  his  planning.  It  would  have  been  the  mak- 
ing of  him.    He  was  to  have  led  the  ladders.     Gad ! 

184: 


IN    LOVE    AND    WAR 

what  a  chance  the  man  had — and  look  at  the  poor 
devil  now !" 

I  was  examining  Austin  Graham  with  a  thumping 
heart,  for  a  queer  suspicion  was  in  my  mind.  Pres- 
ently I  ran  downstairs  and  uncorked  the  bottle  which 
I  now  label  "Bertha."  The  smell  was  identical,  and 
I  went  upstairs  again. 

"Help  me  to  get  him  into  his  boots  and  tunic,"  I 
said. 

And  Le  Mesurier-Groselin  and  I  huddled  the  man's 
fighting  clothes  on  to  him  by  the  light  of  a  flickering 
candle.  Le  Mesurier-Groselin  was  a  big  man  and  my 
trade  had  taught  me  a  certain  skill  in  the  handling  of 
the  dead.  We  soon  had  Austin  Graham  in  full  uni- 
form sitting  up  in  my  arms,  with  the  helmet  crammed 
on  his  head  at  an  unseemly  angle.  He  was  per- 
fectly insensible,  but  his  heart  went  well. 

"Now  help  me  to  get  him  on  to  his  horse," 
I  said. 

Le  Mesurier-Groselin  dropped  his  eye-glass  for  the 
first  and  last  time  on  record,  and  looked  at  me  with  a 
surprised  eye  and  a  solemn  one. 

"I'll  obey  orders,"  he  said.  "But  I  take  it  that  you 
are  very  drunk  or  else  mad." 

We  carried  him  downstairs  and  I  climbed  into 
Graham's  saddle.  Le  Mesurier-Groselin  lifted 
Graham,  who  must  have  weighed  fourteen  stone,  into 
the  saddle  in  front  of  me  and  I  rode  twenty  miles  that 

185 


m   LOVE    AND    WAR 

night  with  him  there.  He  recovered  consciousness  an 
hour  before  we  reached  the  Khan's  stronghold,  and 
as  I  expected,  awoke,  as  if  from  a  sleep,  refreshed 
and  ready  for  any  exertion.  We  had  no  time  for  ex- 
planations. 

^'You  were  drugged,"  I  said,  "by  some  native  spy, 
who  must  have  got  wind  of  the  intended  attack  to- 
night I  knew  that  the  stuff  would  have  to  run  its 
course,  so  I  did  not  physic  you  but  brought  you  along 
with  the  column." 

I  am  glad  to  say  he  believed  me. 

Some  one  found  me  a  restless  field-artillery  horse 
which  was  giving  the  gunners  a  lot  of  trouble,  and  I 
rode  back  to  Oadpur  alone^ — not  having  any  business 
at  the  front.  As  I  approached  the  old  Gate  House, 
the  flutter  of  a  white  dress  caught  my  eye.  It  was 
almost  dawn  and  a  pink  haze  hung  over  the  paddy- 
fields.  The  world  had  that  appearance  of  peace  and 
cleanliness  which  is  left  by  the  passage  of  an  Indian 
night.  My  rooms  were  on  the  ground-floor  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that,  at  the  sound  of  my  horse's  feet, 
some  one  had  come  out  of  them  to  pass  up  the  stone 
stairs  that  led  to  Graham's  quarters.  As  I  slipped  out 
of  the  saddle  the  sound  of  a  distant  cannon  broke  the 
silence  of  the  night,  and  my  horse,  despite  his  forty 
miles  accomplished  in  little  more  than  five  hours, 
pricked  up  his  ears.  I  tied  him  up  and  instead  of 
going  to  my  own  rooms  went  upstairs. 

186 


m   LOVE    AND    WAR 

Miss  Watson  was  standing  in  the  first  room  I  en- 
tered. The  quick  tropic  dawn  had  come,  and  I  saw  the 
face  of  a  woman  who  had  not  slept. 

Major  Graham's  servant  told  me  that  he  was  ill. 
I  have — a — a  right  to  know  how  he  is,  and  where  he 
is,"  she  said  with  her  imperturbable  self-possession. 

"Graham  is  at  the  front,"  I  answered,  and  the  sound 
of  the  cannon,  dull  and  distant,  finished  the  sentence 
for  me. 

Bertha  Watson  bit  her  lip  to  hide  its  quivering  and 
looked  at  me,  breathing  hard. 

"We  have  rung  up  the  curtain,"  I  added,  remem- 
bering our  talk  in  the  veranda  of  the  Eesidency. 

"How  did  he  get  there  ?" 

"Across  my  saddle  in  a  state  of  insensibility,  which 
passed  off,  as  I  expected  it  would,  an  hour  before  the 
time  fixed  for  the  storming  of  the  fortifications.  Some 
one  drugged  him  in  order  that  he  might  not  take  part 
in  this  action.  Some  one  who  feared  him — or  for  him. 
Le  Mesurier-Groselin  called  me  to  him,  and  only  we 
three  know  of  it.  I  am  the  only  medical  man  con- 
nected with  the  affair,  and  I  can  certify  that  it  was  a 
native  drug  that  was  used,  and  that  therefore  a  native 
must  have  done  this  thing.  Probably  a  native  spy, 
Miss  Watson,  who,  finding  out  the  proposed 
surprise  too  late  to  warn  the  rebels,  attempted 
to  disorganize  the  force  by  this  means.  Do  you 
understand  ?" 

187 


m   LOVE    AND    WAR 

She  looked  at  me  with  all  her  keen  wits  in  her 
eyes. 

"No  one  would  ever  dream  that  another  had  done  it 
— saj  some  one  who  was  attached  to  Graham,  and 
who,  in  a  panic,  gave  way  to  temptation  and  did  him  a 
great  wrong,  while  saving  him  from  danger." 

I  stood  aside  as  I  spoke  and  motioned  her  towards 
the  door,  for  the  place  would  soon  be  astir. 

"My !"  she  exclaimed.  "And  I  reckoned  you  were 
a  fool — behind  that  single  eye-glass.  It  is  not  you 
that  is  the  fool,  doctor!" 

Then  suddenly  she  turned  at  the  head  of  the  stairs 
and  whispered  hoarsely — 

"And  if  he  is  killed  ?" 

"That  is  what  he  is  paid  for.  Miss  Watson.  We 
can  only  wait  and  hope  that  he  isn't." 

Austin  Graham  was  not  killed,  but  came  back  with, 
as  the  Brigadier  said,  the  Victoria  Cross  up  his  sleeve. 
I  happened  to  be  near  Bertha  Watson  when  they  met, 
and  there  was  that  in  her  eyes  when  they  encountered 
his  which  was  a  revelation  to  me  and  makes  me  realize 
even  now  what  a  lonely  man  I  am. 


188 


STRANDED 


X 

STRANDED 
"  Aucun  chemin  de  fleurs  ne  conduit  a  la  gloire." 

It  was  nearly  half-past  eight  when  the  Grandhaven 
ran  into  a  fog-bank,  and  the  second  officer  sent  a  mes- 
sage to  the  captain's  steward,  waiting  at  that  great 
man's  dinner-table  in  the  saloon. 

The  captain's  steward  was  a  discreet  man.  He  gave 
the  message  in  a  whisper  as  he  swept  the  cinimbs  from 
the  table  with  a  jerk  of  his  napkin.  The  second  officer 
could  not,  of  course,  reduce  speed  on  his  own  responsi- 
bility. The  Grandhaven  had  been  running  through 
fog-banks  ever  since  she  left  Plymouth  in  the  gray  of 
a  November  afternoon. 

Every  Atlantic  traveller  knows  the  Grandhaven. 
She  was  so  well  known  that  every  berth  was  engaged 
despite  the  lateness  of  the  season.  It  was  considered 
a  privilege  to  sail  with  Captain  Dixon,  the  most  popu- 
lar man  on  the  wide  seas.  A  few  millionaires  con- 
sidered themselves  honored  by  his  friendship.  One 
or  two  of  them  called  him  Tom  on  shore.  He  was  an 
Englishman,  though  the  Grandhaven  was  technically 

191 


STRANDED 

an  American  ship.  His  enemies  said  that  he  owed  his 
success  in  life  to  his  manners,  which  certainly  were 
excellent.  !Not  too  familiar  with  any  one  at  sea,  but 
unerringly  discriminating  between  man  and  man,  be- 
tween a  real  position  and  an  imaginary  one.  For,  in 
the  greatest  Republic  the  world  has  yet  seen,  men  are 
keenly  alive  to  social  distinctions. 

On  the  other  hand,  his  friends  pointed  to  his  record. 
Captain  Dixon  had  never  made  a  mistake  in  seaman- 
ship. 

He  was  a  handsome  man,  with  a  trim  brown  beard 
cut  to  a  point  in  the  naval  style,  gay  blue  eyes,  and  a 
bluff  way  of  carrying  his  head.  The  lady  passengers 
invariably  fell  into  the  habit  of  describing  him  as  a 
splendid  man,  and  the  word  seemed  to  fit  him  like 
a  glove.  ISTature  had  certainly  designed  him  to  be 
shown  somewhere  in  the  front  of  life,  to  be  placed 
upon  a  dais  and  looked  up  to  and  admired  by  the 
multitude.  She  had  written  success  upon  his  sun- 
burnt face. 

He  had  thousands  of  friends.  Every  seat  at  his 
table  w^as  booked  two  voyages  ahead,  and  he  knew  the 
value  of  popularity.  He  was  never  carried  off  his 
feet,  but  enjoyed  it  simply  and  heartily.  He  had 
fallen  in  love  one  summer  voyage  with  a  tall  and  soft- 
mannered  Canadian  girl,  a  Hebe  with  the  face  of  a 
Madonna,  with  thoughtful,  waiting  blue  eyes.  She 
was  only  nineteen,   and,  of  course.  Captain  Dixon 

192 


STRAKDED 

carried  everything  before  him.  The  girl  was  aston- 
ished at  her  good  fortune ;  for  this  wooer  was  a  king 
on  his  own  great  decks.  No  princess  could  be  good 
enough  for  him,  had  princesses  been  in  the  habit  of 
crossing  the  Atlantic.  Captain  Dixon  had  now  been 
married  some  years. 

His  marriage  had  made  a  perceptible  change  in  the 
personnel  of  his  intimates.  A  bachelor  captain  ap- 
peals to  a  different  world.  He  was  still  a  great  favor- 
ite with  men. 

Although  the  Grandliaven  had  only  been  one  night 
at  sea,  the  captain's  table  had  no  vacant  seats.  These 
were  all  old  travellers,  and  there  had  been  libations 
poured  to  the  gods,  now  made  manifest  by  empty 
bottles  and  not  a  little  empty  laughter.  Dixon,  how- 
ever, was  steady  enough.  He  had  reluctantly  accept- 
ed one  glass  of  champagne  from  the  bottle  of  a  Sen- 
ator powerful  in  shipping  circles.  He  and  his  officers 
made  a  point  of  drinking  water  at  table.  The  modern 
sailor  is  one  of  the  startling  products  of  these  odd 
times.  He  dresses  for  dinner,  and  when  off  duty  may 
be  found  sitting  on  the  saloon  stairs  discussing  with 
a  lady  passenger  the  respective  merits  of  Wagner  and 
Chopin  as  set  forth  by  the  ship's  band,  when  he  ought 
to  be  asleep  in  bed  in  preparation  for  the  middle 
watch. 

The  captain  received  the  message  with  a  curt  nod. 
But  he  did  not  rise  from  the  table.     He  knew  that 

193 


STEANDED 

a  hundred  eyes  were  upon  him,  watching  his  every 
glance.  If  he  jumped  up  and  hurried  from  the  table, 
the  night's  rest  of  half  a  hundred  ladies  would  in- 
evitably suffer. 

He  took  his  watch  from  his  pocket  and  rose,  laugh- 
ing at  some  sally  made  by  a  neighbor.  As  he  passed 
down  the  length  of  the  saloon,  he  paused  to  greet  one 
and  exchange  a  laughing  word  with  another.  He  was 
a  very  gracious  monarch. 

On  deck  it  was  wet  and  cold.  A  keen  wind  from 
the  north-west  seemed  to  promise  a  heavy  sea  and  a 
dirty  night  when  the  Lizard  should  be  passed  and  the 
protection  of  the  high  Cornish  moorlands  left  behind. 
The  captain's  cabin  was  at  the  head  of  the  saloon 
stairs.  Captain  Dixon  lost  no  time  in  changing  his 
smart  mess-jacket  for  a  thicker  coat.  Oilskins  and  a 
sou'wester  transformed  him  again  to  the  seaman  that 
he  was,  and  he  climbed  the  narrow  iron  ladder  into  the 
howling  darkness  of  the  upper  bridge  with  a  brisk 
readiness  to  meet  any  situation. 

The  fog-bank  was  a  thick  one.  It  was  like  a  sheet 
of  wet  cotton-wool  laid  upon  the  troubled  breast  of 
the  sea.  The  lights  at  the  forward  end  of  the  huge 
steamer  were  barely  visible.  There  was  no  glare  aloft 
where  the  masthead  light  stared  unwinking  into  the 
mist. 

Dixon  exchanged  a  few  words  with  the  second 
officer,  who  stood,  rather  restless,  by  the  engine-room 

194 


STEA^TDED 

telegraph.  They  spoke  in  monosyllables.  The  dial 
showed  "Full  speed  ahead."  Captain  Dixon  stood 
chewing  the  end  of  his  golden  mustache,  which 
he  had  drawn  in  between  his  teeth.  Tie  looked  for- 
ward and  aft  and  up  aloft  in  three  quick  movements 
of  the  head.  Then  he  laid  his  two  hands  on  the  en- 
gine-room telegraph  and  reduced  the  pace  to  half- 
speed.  There  were  a  hundred  people  on  board  who 
would  take  note  of  it  with  a  throb  of  uneasiness  at 
their  hearts,  but  that  could  not  be  helped. 

The  second  officer  stepped  sideways  into  the 
chart-room,  reluctant  to  turn  his  eyes  elsewhere 
than  dead  ahead  into  the  wind  and  mist,  to  make  a 
note  in  two  books  that  lay  open  on  the  table  under 
the  shaded  electric  lamp.  It  was  twenty  minutes 
to  nine. 

The  Grandhaven  was  a  quick  ship,  but  she  was  also 
a  safe  one.  The  captain  had  laid  a  course  close  under 
the  Lizard  lights.  He  intended  to  alter  it,  but  not 
yet.  The  mist  might  lift.  There  was  plenty  of  time, 
for  by  dead  reckoning  they  could  scarcely  hope  to 
sight  the  twin  lights  before  eleven  o'clock.  The  cap- 
tain turned  and  said  a  single  word  to  his  second  officer, 
and  a  moment  later  the  great  fog-horn  above  them 
in  the  darkness  coughed  out  its  deafening  note  of 
warning.  A  dead  silence  followed.  Captain  Dixon 
nodded  his  head  with  a  curt  grunt  of  satisfaction. 
There  was  nothing  near  them.    They  could  carry  on, 

195 


STRANDED 

playing  their  game  of  blindman's-buff  with  Fate, 
open-eared,  steady,  watchful. 

There  was  no  music  to-night,  though  the  band  had 
played  the  cheeriest  items  of  its  repertoire  outside  the 
saloon  door  during  dinner.  Many  of  the  passengers 
were  in  their  cabins  already,  for  the  Grandhaven  was 
rolling  gently  on  the  shoulder  of  the  Atlantic  swell. 
The  sea  was  heavy,  but  not  so  heavy  as  they  would 
certainly  encounter  west  of  the  Land's  End.  Pres- 
ently the  Grandhaven  crept  out  into  a  clear  space, 
leaving  the  fog-bank  in  rolling  clouds  like  cannon- 
smoke  behind  her. 

"Ah!"  said  Captain  Dixon,  with  a  sigh  of  relief; 
he  had  never  been  really  anxious. 

The  face  of  the  second  officer,  ruddy  and  glistening 
with  wet,  lighted  up  suddenly,  and  sundry  lines 
around  his  eyes  were  wiped  away  as  if  by  the  passage 
of  a  sponge  as  he  stooped  over  the  binnacle.  Almost 
at  once  his  face  clouded  again. 

''There  is  another  light  ahead,"  he  muttered. 
"Hang  them." 

The  captain  gave  a  short  laugh  to  reassure  his  sub- 
ordinate, whom  he  knew  to  be  an  anxious,  careful 
man,  on  his  promotion.  Captain  Dixon  was  always 
self-confident.  That  glass  of  champagne  from 
the  Senator's  hospitable  bottle  made  him  feel 
doubly  capable  to-night  to  take  his  ship  out 
into  the  open  Atlantic,  and  then  to  bed  with  that 

196 


STRANDED 

easy  heart  which  a  skipper  only  knows  on  the 
high  seas. 

Suddenly  he  turned  to  look  sharply  at  his  com- 
panion, whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  fog-bank,  which 
was  now  looming  high  above  the  bows.  There  were 
stars  above  them,  but  no  moon  would  be  up  for  an- 
other three  hours.  Dixon  seemed  to  be  about  to  say 
something,  but  changed  his  mind.  He  raised  his 
hands  to  the  ear-flaps  of  his  sou'wester,  and,  loosening 
the  string  under  his  chin,  pushed  the  flannel  lappets 
up  within  the  cap.  The  second  officer  wore  the  ordi- 
nary seafaring  cap  known  as  a  cheese-cutter.  He  was 
much  too  anxious  a  man  to  cover  his  ears  even  in  clear 
weather,  and  said,  with  his  nervous  laugh,  that  the 
color  did  not  come  out  of  his  hair,  if  any  one  sug- 
gested that  the  warmer  headgear  would  protect  him 
from  rain  and  spray. 

Dixon  stood  nearer  to  his  companion,  and  they  stood 
side  by  side,  looking  into  the  fog-bank,  which  was  now 
upon  them. 

"Any  dogs  on  board  ?"  he  asked  casually. 

"^o — why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"Thought  I  heard  a  little  bell ;  such  a  thing  as  a 
lady's  lap-dog  wears  round  his  neck  on  a  ribbon." 

The  second  officer  turned  and  glanced  sharply  up  at 
the  captain,  who,  however,  made  no  further  comment, 
and  seemed  to  be  thinking  of  something  else. 

"Couldn't  have  been  a  bell-buoy,  I  suppose  ?"  he 

197 


STRANDED 

suggested,  with  a  tentative  laugh  as  he  pushed  his  cap 
upwards  away  from  his  ears. 

"'No  bell-buoys  out  here,"  replied  the  captain, 
rather  sharply,  with  his  usual  self-confidence. 

They  stood  side  by  side  in  silence  for  five  minutes 
or  more.  The  mist  was  a  litle  thinner  now,  and  Cap- 
tain Dixon  looked  upwards  to  the  sky,  hoping  to  see 
the  stars.  He  was  looking  up  when  the  steamer 
struck,  and  the  shock  threw  him  against  the  after  rail 
of  the  bridge.  The  second  officer  was  thro\vn  to  the 
ground  and  struggled  there  for  an  instant  before  get- 
ting to  his  feet  again. 

"God  Almighty !"  he  said,  and  that  was  all. 

Captain  Dixon  was  already  at  the  engine-room  tele- 
graph wrenching  the  pointer  round  to  full  speed 
ahead.  The  quartermaster  on  watch  was  at  his  side 
in  a  moment,  and  several  men  in  shining  oilskins 
swarmed  up  the  ladder  to  the  bridge  for  their  orders. 

The  Grandhaven  was  quite  still  now,  but  trembling 
like  a  horse  that  had  stumbled  badly  and  recovered 
itself  with  dripping  knees.  Already  the  seas  were 
beating  the  bluff  sides  of  the  great  vessel,  throwing 
pyramids  of  spray  high  above  the  funnels. 

Captain  Dixon  grabbed  the  nearest  man  by  the 
arm. 

"The  boats,"  he  shouted  in  his  ear.  "Tell  Mr. 
Stoke  to  take  charge.    Tell  him  it's  the  Manacles." 

There  seemed  to  be  no  danger,  for  the  ship  was 

198 


STEANDED 

quite  steady,  with  level  decks.  Turning  to  another 
quartennaster,  Dixon  gave  further  orders  clearly  and 
concisely. 

"Keep  her  at  that,"  he  said  to  the  second  officer, 
indicating  the  dial  of  the  engine-room. 

'^Stay  where  you  are  !"  he  shouted  to  the  two  steers- 
men who  were  preparing  to  quit  the  wheel-house. 

If  Captain  Dixon  had  never  made  a  mistake  in  sea- 
manship he  must  have  thought  out  the  possibilities  of 
this  mistake  in  all  their  bearings.  For  the  situation 
was  quite  clear  and  compact  in  his  mind.  The  orders 
he  gave  came  in  their  proper  sequence  and  were  given 
to  the  right  men. 

From  the  decks  beneath  arose  a  confused  murmur 
like  the  stirring  of  bees  in  an  overturned  hive.  Then 
a  sharp  order  in  one  voice,  clear  and  strong,  followed 
by  a  dead  silence. 

"Good !"  said  the  captain.  "Stoke  has  got  'em  in 
hand." 

He  broke  off  and  looked  sharply  fore  and  aft  and 
up  above  him  at  the  towering  funnel. 

"She  is  heeling,"  he  said.    "Martin,  she's  heeling." 

The  ship  was  slowly  turning  on  her  side,  like  some 
huge  and  stricken  dumb  animal  laying  itself  down 
to  die. 

"Yes,"  said  the  captain  with  a  bitter  laugh,  to  the 
two  steersmen  who  had  come  a  second  time  to  the 
threshold  of  the  wheel-house,  "yes,  you  can  go." 

199 


STRANDED 

He  turned  to  the  engine-room  telegraph  and  rang 
the  "Stand  by."  But  there  was  no  answer.  The 
engineers  had  come  on  deck. 

"She's  got  to  go,"  said  Martin,  the  second  officer, 
deliberately. 

"You  had  better  follow  them,"  replied  the  captain, 
with  a  jerk  of  his  head  towards  the  ladder  down  which 
the  two  steersmen  had  disappeared. 

"Go,   be  d d,"   said  Martin.      "My  place  is 

here."    There  was  no  nervousness  about  the  man  now. 

The  murmur  on  the  decks  had  suddenly  risen  to 
shrieks  and  angry  shouts.  Some  were  getting  ready 
to  die  in  a  most  unseemly  manner.  They  were  fight- 
ing for  the  boats.  The  clear,  strong  voice  had  ceased 
giving  orders.  It  afterwards  transpired  that  the  chief 
officer,  Stoke,  was  engaged  at  this  time  on  the  sloping 
decks  in  tying  lifebelts  round  the  women  and  throw- 
ing them  overboard,  despite  their  shrieks  and  strug- 
gles. The  coastguards  found  these  women  strewn 
along  the  beach  like  wreckage  below  St.  Keverne — 
some  that  night,  some  at  dawn — and  only  two  were 
dead. 

The  captain  snaped  his  finger  and  thumb,  a  gest- 
ure of  annoyance  which  was  habitual  to  him.  Mar- 
tin knew  the  meaning  of  the  sound  which  he  heard 
through  the  shouting  and  the  roar  of  the  wind  and 
the  hissing  of  a  cloud  of  steam.  He  placed  his  hand 
on  the  deck  of  the  bridge  as  if  to  feel  it.    He  had  only 

200 


STRANDED 

to  stretch  out  his  arm  to  touch  the  timbers,  for  the 
vessel  was  lying  over  farther  now.  There  was  no 
vibration  between  his  hand;  the  engines  had  ceased 
to  work. 

"Yes,"  said  Dixon,  who  was  holding  to  the  rail  in 
front  of  him  with  both  hands.  "Yes,  she  has  got 
to  go." 

And  as  he  spoke  the  Grandhaven  slid  slowly  back- 
wards and  sideways  into  the  deep  water.  The  shrieks 
were  suddenly  increased,  and  then  died  away  in  a  con- 
fused gurgle.  Martin  slid  down  on  to  the  captain, 
and  tog-ether  they  shot  into  the  sea.  They  sank 
through  a  stratum  of  struggling  limbs. 

The  village  of  St.  Keverne  lies  nearly  two  miles 
from  the  sea,  high  above  it  on  the  bare  tableland  that 
juts  out  ten  miles  to  the  Lizard  lights.  It  is  a  rural 
village  far  from  railway  or  harbor.  Its  men  are  agri- 
culturists, following  the  plough  and  knowing  but  little 
of  the  sea,  which  is  so  far  below  them  that  they  rarely 
descend  to  the  beach,  and  they  do  no  business  in  the 
great  waters.  But  their  churchyard  is  full  of  drowned 
folk.  There  are  one  hundred  and  four  in  one  grave, 
one  hundred  and  twenty  in  another,  one  hundred  and 
six  in  a  third.  An  old  St.  Keverne  man  will  slowly 
name  thirty  ships  and  steamers  wrecked  in  sight  of 
the  church  steeple  in  the  range  of  his  memory. 

A  quick-eared  coastguard  heard  the  sound  of  the 
escaj^e  of  steam,  which  was  almost  instantly  silenced. 

201 


STKANDED 

Then  he  heard  nothing  more.  He  went  back  to  the 
station  and  made  his  report.  He  was  so  sure  of  his 
own  ears  that  he  took  a  lantern  and  went  down  to  the 
beach.  There  he  fonnd  nothing.  He  stumbled  on 
towards  Cadgwith  along  the  unbroken  beach.  At 
times  he  covered  his  lantern  and  peered  out  to  sea,  but 
he  saw  nothing.  At  last  something  white  caught  his 
eye.  It  was  half  afloat  amid  the  breakers.  He  went 
knee-deep  and  dragged  a  woman  to  the  shore;  she 
was  quite  dead.  He  held  his  lantern  above  his  head 
and  stared  out  to  sea.  The  face  of  the  water  was 
flecked  with  dark  shadows  and  white  patches.  He 
was  alone,  two  miles  from  help  up  a  steep  combe  and 
through  muddy  lanes,  and  as  he  turned  to  trudge 
towards  the  cliffs  his  heart  suddenly  leapt  to  his 
throat.  There  was  some  one  approaching  him  across 
the  shingle. 

A  strong  deep  voice  called  to  him,  with  command 
and  a  certain  resolution  in  its  tones. 

"You,  a  coastguard  ?"  it  asked. 

"Yes." 

The  man  came  up  to  him  and  gave  him  orders  to 
go  to  the  nearest  village  for  help,  for  lanterns  and 
carts. 

"What  ship  ?"  asked  the  coastguard. 

"Grandhaven,  London,  New  Orleans,"  was  the  an- 
swer. "Hurry,  and  bring  as  many  men  as  you  can. 
Got  a  boat  about  here  ?" 

202 


STRANDED 

"There  is  one  on  the  beach  half  a  mile  along  to 
the  south'ard.  But  you  cannot  launch  her  through 
this." 

"Oh  yes,  we  can." 

The  coastg-uard  glanced  at  the  man  with  a  sudden 
interest. 

"Who  are  you  ?"  he  asked. 

"Stoke — first  mate,"  was  the  reply. 

The  rest  of  the  story  of  the  wreck  has  been  told  by 
abler  pens  in  the  daily  newspapers.  How  forty-seven 
people  were  saved;  how  the  lifeboat  from  Cadg\vith 
picked  up  some,  floating  insensible  on  the  ebbing  tide 
with  lifebuoys  tied  securely  round  them;  how  some 
men  proved  themselves  great,  and  some  women  great- 
er; how  a  few  proved  themselves  very  contemptible 
indeed;  how  the  quiet  chief  officer,  Stoke,  obeyed 
his  captain's  orders  to  take  charge  of  the  passengers ; 
— are  not  these  things  told  by  the  newspapers  ?  Some 
of  them,  especially  the  halfpenny  ones,  went  further, 
and  explained  to  a  waiting  world  how  it  had  all  come 
about,  and  how  easily  it  might  have  been  avoided. 
They,  moreover,  dealt  out  blame  and  praise  with  a 
liberal  hand,  and  condemned  the  owners  or  exonerated 
the  captain  with  the  sublime  wisdom  which  illumines 
Fleet  Street.  One  and  all  agreed  that  because  the 
captain  was  drowned  he  was  not  to  blame,  a  very  com- 
mon and  washy  sentiment  which  appealed  powerfully 
to  the  majority  of  their  readers.     Some  of  the  news- 

203 


STKANDED 

papers,  while  agreeing  that  the  first  officer,  having 
saved  many  lives  by  his  great  exertions  during  the 
night,  and  perfect  organization  for  relief  and  help 
the  next  day,  had  made  for  himself  an  immortal  name, 
hinted  darkly  that  the  captain's  was  the  better  part, 
and  that  they  preferred  to  hear  in  such  cases  that  all 
the  officers  had  perished. 

Stoke  despatched  the  surviving  passengers  by  train 
from  Helston  back  to  London.  They  were  not  en- 
thusiastic about  him,  neither  did  they  subscribe  to 
present  him  with  a  service  of  plate.  They  thought 
him  stern  and  unsympathetic.  But  before  they  had 
realized  quite  what  had  happened  they  were  back  at 
their  homes  or  with  their  friends.  Many  of  the  dead 
were  recovered,  and  went  to  swell  the  heavy  crop 
of  God's  seed  sown  in  St.  Keverne  churchyard.  It 
was  Stoke  who  organized  these  quiet  burials,  and  took 
a  careful  note  of  each  name.  It  was  he  to  whom  the 
friends  of  the  dead  made  their  complaint  or  took 
their  tearful  reminiscences,  to  both  of  which  alike  he 
gave  an  attentive  hearing  emphasized  by  the  steady 
gaze  of  a  pair  of  gray-blue  eyes  which  many  remem- 
bered afterwards  without  knowing  why. 

"It  is  all  right,"  said  the  director  of  the  great 
steamship  company  in  London.     "Stoke  is  there." 

And  they  sent  him  money,  and  left  him  in  charge 
at  St.  Keverne.  The  newspaper  correspondents  hur- 
ried thither,  and  several  of  them  described  the  wrong 

204 


STRANDED 

man  as  Stoke,  while  others,  having  identified  him, 
weighed  him,  and  found  him  wanting  in  a  proper 
sense  of  their  importance.  There  was  no  "copy"  in 
him,  they  said.  He  had  no  conception  of  the  majesty 
of  the  Press. 

At  length  the  survivors  were  all  sent  home  and 
the  dead  thrown  up  by  the  sea  were  buried.  Martin, 
the  second  officer,  was  among  these.  They  found  the 
captain's  pilot-jacket  on  the  beach.  He  must  have 
made  a  fight  for  his  life,  and  thro^vn  aside  his  jacket 
for  greater  ease  in  swimming.  Twenty-nine  of  the 
crew,  eleven  passengers  and  a  stewardess  were  never 
found.  The  sea  would  never  give  them  up  now  until 
that  day  when  she  shall  relinquish  her  hostages — 
mostly  Spaniards  and  English — to  come  from  the 
deep  at  the  trumpet  call. 

Stoke  finished  his  business  in  St.  Keveme  and 
took  the  train  to  London.  Xever  an  expansive  man, 
he  was  shut  up  now  as  the  strong  are  shut  up  by  a 
sorrow.  The  loss  of  the  Grandhaiwi  left  a  scar  on 
his  heart  which  time  could  not  heal.  She  had  come 
to  his  care  from  the  builder's  yard.  She  had  never 
known  another  husband. 

He  was  free  now — free  to  turn  to  the  hardest  por- 
tion of  his  task.  He  had  always  sailed  with  Dixon, 
his  life-long  friend.  They  had  been  boys  together, 
had  forced  their  way  up  the  ladder  together,  had 
understood  each  other  all  through.    His  friend's  wife, 

205 


STRANDED 

by  virtue  of  her  office  perhaps,  had  come  nearer  to 
this  man's  grim  and  lonely  heart  than  any  other  wom- 
an. He  had  never  defined  this  feeling;  he  had  not 
even  gone  back  to  its  source  as  a  woman  would  have 
done,  or  he  might  have  discovered  that  the  gentle  air 
of  question,  or  of  waiting  in  her  eyes  which  was  not 
always  there,  but  only  when  he  looked  for  it,  had 
been  there  long  ago  on  a  summer  voyage  before  she 
was  Captain  Dixon's  wife  at  all. 

All  through  his  long  swim  to  shore,  all  through  the 
horrors  of  that  November  night  and  the  long-drawn 
pain  of  the  succeeding  days,  he  had  done  his  duty  with 
a  steady  impassiveness  which  was  in  keeping  with  the 
square  jaw,  the  resolute  eyes,  the  firm  and  merciful 
lips  of  the  man:  but  he  had  only  thought  of  Mary 
Dixon.  His  one  thought  was  that  this  must  break  her 
heart. 

It  was  this  thought  that  made  him  hard  and  im- 
passive. In  the  great  office  in  London  he  was  re- 
ceived gravely.  With  a  dull  surprise  he  noted  a 
quiver  in  the  lips  of  the  managing  director  when  he 
shook  hands.  The  great  business  man  looked  older 
and  smaller  and  thinner  in  this  short  time,  for  it  is 
a  terrible  thing  to  have  to  deal  in  human  lives,  even 
if  you  are  paid  heavily  for  so  doing. 

"There  will  be  an  official  inquiry — ^you  will  have 
to  face  it.  Stoke." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  almost  indifferently. 

206 


STKAKDED 

"And  there  is  Dixon's  wife.  You  will  have  to  go 
and  see  her,  I  have  been.  She  stays  at  home  and 
takes  her  punishment  quietly,  unlike  some  of 
them." 

And  two  hours  later  he  was  waiting  for  Mary  Dix- 
on in  the  little  drawing-room  of  the  house  in  a  Kentish 
village  which  he  had  helped  Dixon  to  furnish  for  her. 
She  did  not  keep  him  long,  and  when  she  came  into 
the  room  he  drew  a  sharp  breath ;  but  he  had  nothing 
to  say  to  her.  She  was  tall  and  strongly  made,  with 
fair  hair  and  delicate  coloring.  She  had  no  children, 
though  she  had  been  married  six  years,  and  Mature 
seemed  to  have  designed  her  to  be  the  mother  of  strong, 
quiet  men. 

Stoke  looked  into  her  eyes,  and  immediately  the 
expectant  look  came  into  them.  There  was  something 
else  behind  it,  a  sort  of  veiled  light. 

"It  was  kind  of  you  to  come  so  soon,"  she  said, 
taking  a  chair  by  the  fireside.  There  was  only  one 
lamp  in  the  room,  and  its  light  scarcely  reached  her 
face. 

But  for  all  the  good  he  did  in  coming  it  would 
seem  that  lie  might  as  well  have  stayed  away,  for  he 
had  no  comfort  to  offer  her.  He  drew  forward  a  chair 
and  sat  down  with  that  square  slowness  of  movement 
which  is  natural  to  the  limbs  of  men  who  deal  exclu- 
sively with  Nature  and  action,  and  he  looked  into  the 
fire  without  saying  a  word.     Again  it  was  she  who 

207 


STEANDED 

spoke,  and  her  words  surprised  the  man,  who  had  only 
dealt  with  women  at  sea,  where  women  are  not  seen 
at  their  best. 

"I  do  not  want  you  to  grieve  for  me,"  she  said 
quietly.  "You  have  enough  trouble  of  your  own  with- 
out thinking  of  me.  You  have  lost  your  friend  and 
your  ship." 

He  made  a  little  movement  of  the  lips,  and  glanced 
at  her  slowly,  holding  his  lip  between  his  teeth  as  he 
was  wont  to  hold  it  during  the  moments  of  suspense 
before  letting  go  the  anchors  in  a  crowded  roadstead 
as  he  stood  at  his  post  on  the  forecastle-head  awaiting 
the  captain's  signal.  She  was  the  first  to  divine  what 
the  ship  had  been  to  him.  Her  eyes  were  waiting  for 
his.  They  were  alight  with  a  gentle  glow,  which  he 
took  to  be  pity.  She  spoke  calmly,  and  her  voice  was 
always  low  and  quiet.  But  he  was  quite  sure  that  her 
heart  was  broken,  and  the  thought  must  have  been 
conveyed  to  her  by  the  silent  messenger  that  passes  to 
and  fro  between  kindred  minds.  For  she  immediately 
took  up  his  thought. 

"It  is  not,"  she  said  rather  hurriedly,  "as  if  it 
would  break  my  heart.  Long  ago  I  used  to  think  it 
would.  I  was  very  proud  of  him  and  of  his  popular- 
ity.    But " 

And  she  said  no  more.  But  sat  with  dreaming  eyes 
looking  into  the  fire.  After  a  long  pause  she  spoke 
again. 

208 


STKAXDED 

"So  you  must  not  grieve  for  me,"  she  said,  return- 
ing persistently  to  her  point 

She  was  quite  simple  and  honest.     Hers  was  that 
,   rare  wisdom  which  is  given  only  to  the  pure  in  heart ; 
for  they  see  through  into  the  soul  of  man  and  sift  out 
the  honest  from  among  the  false. 

It  seemed  that  she  had  gained  her  object,  for  Stoke 
was  visibly  relieved.  He  told  her  many  things  which 
he  had  withheld  from  other  inquirers.  He  cleared 
Dixon's  good  name  from  anything  but  that  liability 
to  error  which  is  only  human,  and  spoke  of  the  cap- 
tain's nerve  and  steadiness  in  the  hour  of  danger.  In- 
sensibly they  lapsed  into  a  low-voiced  discussion  of 
Dixon  as  of  the  character  of  a  lost  friend  equally  dear 
to  them  both. 

Then  he  rose  to  take  his  leave  before  it  was  really 
necessary  to  go  in  order  to  catch  his  train,  impatient 
to  meet  her  eyes — which  were  waiting  for  his — 
for  a  moment  as  they  said  good-by ;  as  the  man  who 
is  the  slave  of  a  habit  waits  impatiently  for  the  time 
when  he  can  give  way  to  it. 

He  went  home  to  the  rooms  he  always  occupied 
near  his  club  in  London.  There  he  found  a  number 
of  letters  which  had  been  sent  on  from  the  steam- 
ship company's  offices.  The  first  he  opened  bore  the 
postmark  of  St.  Just  in  Cornwall.  It  was  from  the 
coastguard  captain  of  that  remote  western  station,  and 
it  had  been  originally  posted  to  St.  Keveme. 

209 


STEA^^DED 

"Dear  Sir,"  he  wrote.  "One  of  your  crew  or  pass- 
engers has  turned  up  here  on  foot.  He  must  have 
been  wandering  about  for  nearly  a  week  and  is  desti- 
tute. At  times  his  mind  is  unhinged.  He  began  to 
write  a  letter,  but  could  not  finish  it,  and  gives  no 
name.  Please  come  over  and  identify  him.  Mean- 
while, I  will  take  good  care  of  him." 

Stoke  opened  the  folded  paper,  which  had  dropped 
from  the  envelope. 

"Dear  Jack,"  it  began.  One  or  two  sentences  fol- 
lowed, but  there  was  no  sequence  or  sense  in  them. 
The  writing  was  that  of  Captain  Dixon  without  its 
characteristic  firmness  or  cohesion. 

Stoke  glanced  at  his  watch  and  took  up  his  bag — a 
new  bag  hurriedly  bought  in  Falmouth — stuffed  full 
of  a  few  necessities  pressed  upon  him  by  kind  persons 
at  St.  Keveme  when  he  stood  among  them  in  the 
clothes  in  which  he  had  swum  ashore,  which  had  dried 
upon  him  during  a  long  liovember  night.  There  was 
just  time  to  catch  the  night  mail  to  Penzance. 
Heaven  was  kind  to  him  and  gave  him  no  time  to 
think. 

The  coach  leaves  Penzance  at  nine  in  the  morning 
for  a  two  hours'  climb  over  bare  moorland  to  St.  Just 
— a  little  gray,  remote  town  on  the  western  sea.  The 
loneliness  of  the  hills  is  emphasized  here  and  there  by 
the  ruin  of  an  abandoned  mine.  St.  Just  itself,  the 
very  acme  of  remoteness,   is  yearly  diminishing  in 

210 


STRANDED 

importance  and  population,  sending  forth  her  burrow- 
ing sons  to  those  jDlaces  in  the  world  where  silver  and 
copper  and  gold  lie  hid. 

The  coastguard  captain  was  awaiting  Stoke's  ar- 
rival in  the  little  deserted  square  where  the  Penzance 
omnibus  deposited  its  passengers.  The  two  men  shook 
hands  with  that  subtle  and  silent  fellowship  which 
draws  together  seamen  of  all  classes  and  all  nations. 
They  walked  away  together  in  the  calm  speechlessness 
of  Englishmen  thrown  together  on  matters  of  their 
daily  business. 

"He  doesn't  pick  up  at  all,"  said  the  coastguard 
captain,  at  length.  "Just  sits  mum  all  day.  My  wife 
looks  after  him,  but  she  can't  stir  him  up.  If  any- 
body could,  she  could."  And  the  man  walked  on, 
looking  straight  in  front  of  him  with  a  patient  eye. 
He  spoke  with  unconscious  feeling.  "He  is  a  gentle- 
man despite  the  clothes  he  came  ashore  in.  Getting 
across  to  the  Southern  States  under  a  cloud, 
as  likely  as  not,"  he  said  presently.  "Some 
bank  manager,  perhaps.  He  must  have  changed 
clothes  with  some  forecastle  hand.  They  were  sea- 
man's clothes,  and  he  had  been  sleeping  or  hiding 
in  a  ditch." 

He  led  the  way  to  his  house,  standing  apart  in  the 
well-kept  garden  of  the  station.  He  opened  the  door 
of  the  simply  furnished  drawing-room. 

"Here  is  a  friend  come  to  see  vou,"  he  said ;  and, 

211 


STPwANDED 

standing  aside,  he  invited  Stoke  by  a  silent  gesture  of 
the  head  to  pass  in. 

A  man  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  fire  with  his  back 
towards  the  door.  He  did  not  move  or  turn 
his  head.  Stoke  closed  the  door  behind  him  as 
he  entered  the  room,  and  went  slowly  towards  the 
fireplace.  Dixon  turned  and  looked  at  him  with 
shrinking  eyes,  like  the  eyes  of  a  dog  that  has  been 
beaten. 

"Let  us  get  out  on  to  the  cliffs,"  he  said  in  a 
whisper.     "We  cannot  talk  here." 

He  was  clean-shaven,  and  his  hair  was  grizzled  at 
the  temples.  His  face  looked  oddly  weak ;  for  he  had 
an  irresolute  chin,  hitherto  hidden  by  his  smart  beard. 
Few  would  have  recognized  him. 

By  way  of  reply  Stoke  went  back  towards  the 
door. 

"Come  on,  then,"  he  said  rather  curtly. 

They  did  not  speak  until  they  had  passed  out  be- 
yond the  town  towards  the  bare  tableland  that  leads 
to  the  sea. 

"Couldn't  face  it.  Jack,  that's  the  truth,"  said  the 
captain,  at  last.  "And  if  you  or  any  others  try  to 
make  me,  I'll  shoot  myself.  How  many  was  it  ?  Tell 
me  quickly,  man." 

"Over  a  hundred  and  ninety,"  replied  Stoke. 

They  walked  out  on  to  the  bare  tableland  and  sat 
down  on  a  crumbling  wall. 

212 


STKANDED 

"And  what  do  the  papers  say  ?  I  have  not  dared 
to  ask  for  one." 

Stoke  shrugged  his  square  shoulders. 

"What  does  it  matter  what  they  say?"  answered 
the  man  who  had  never  seen  his  own  name  in  the 
newspapers.  Perhaps  he  failed  to  understand  Dixon's 
point  of  view. 

"Have  you  seen  Mary  ?"  asked  the  captain. 

"Yes." 

Then  they  sat  in  silence  for  some  minutes.  There 
was  a  heavy  sea  running,  and  the  rocks  round  the 
Land's  End  were  black  in  a  bed  of  pure  white.  The 
Longship's  lighthouse  stood  up,  a  gray  shadow  in  a 
gray  scene. 

"Come,"  said  Stoke.     "Be  a  man  and  face  it." 

There  was  no  answer  and  the  speaker  sat  staring 
across  the  lashed  waters  to  the  west,  his  square  chin 
thrust  forward,  his  resolute  lips  pressed,  his  eyes  im- 
passive. There  was  obviously  only  one  course  through 
life  for  this  seaman — the  straight  one. 

"If  it  is  only  for  Mary's  sake,"  he  added  at  length. 

"Keeping  the  Gull  Lightship  E.S.E.,  and  having 
the  South  Foreland  W.  by  'N.,  you  should  find  six 
fathoms  of  water  at  a  neap  tide,"  muttered  Captain 
Dixon,  in  a  low  monotone.  His  eyes  were  fixed  and 
far  away.  He  was  unconscious  of  his  com- 
panion's presence,  and  spoke  like  one  talking  in  his 
dreams. 

213 


STRANDED 

Stoke  sat  motionless  by  him  while  he  took  his 
steamer  in  imagination  through  the  Downs  and  round 
the  North  Foreland.  But  what  he  said  was  mostly 
nonsense,  and  he  mixed  up  the  bearings  of  the  inner 
and  outer  channels  into  a  hopeless  jumble.  Then  he 
sat  huddled  up  on  the  wall  and  lapsed  again  into  a 
silent  dream,  with  eyes  fixed  on  the  western  sea. 
Stoke  took  him  by  the  arm  and  led  him  back  to  the 
town,  this  harmless,  soft-speaking  creature  who  had 
once  been  a  brilliant  man,  and  had  made  but  one  mis- 
take at  sea. 

Stoke  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Mary  Dixon  that  after- 
noon. He  took  lodgings  in  a  cottage  outside  St.  Just, 
on  the  tableland  that  overlooks  the  sea.  He  told  the 
captain  of  the  coastguards  that  he  had  been  able  to 
identify  this  man,  and  had  written  to  his  people  in 
London. 

Dixon  recognized  her  when  she  came,  but  he  soon 
lapsed  again  into  his  dreamy  state  of  incoherence, 
and  that  which  made  him  lose  his  grip  on  his  reason 
was  again  the  terror  of  having  to  face  the  world  as 
the  captain  of  the  lost  Grandhaven.  To  humor  him 
they  left  St.  Just  and  went  to  London.  They  changed 
their  name  to  that  which  Mary  had  borne  before  her 
marriage,  a  French  Canadian  name,  Baillere.  A 
great  London  specialist  held  out  a  dim  hope  of  ulti- 
mate recovery. 

214 


STRANDED 

"It  was  brought  on  by  some  great  shock/'  he 
suggested. 

"Yes,"  said  Stoke.     "By  a  great  shock." 

"A  bereavement  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Stoke,  slowly. 

It  is  years  since  the  loss  of  the  Grandhaven,  and 
her  story  was  long  ago  superseded  and  forgotten.  And 
the  London  specialist  was  wrong. 

The  Bailleres  live  now  in  the  cottage  westward  of 
St.  Just  towards  the  sea,  where  Stoke  took  lodgings. 
It  was  the  captain's  wish  to  return  to  this  remote  spot. 
Whenever  Captain  Stoke  is  in  England  he  spends  his 
brief  leave  of  absence  in  journeying  to  the  forgotten 
mining  town.  Baillere  passes  his  days  in  his  garden 
or  sitting  on  the  low  wall,  looking  with  vacant  eyes 
across  the  sea  whereon  his  name  was  once  a  household 
word.  His  secret  is  still  safe.  The  world  still  ex- 
onerates him  because  he  was  drowned. 

"He  sits  and  dreams  all  day,"  is  the  report  that 
Mary  always  gives  to  Stoke  when  she  meets  him  in 
the  town  square,  where  the  Penzance  omnibus,  the 
only  link  with  the  outer  world,  deposits  its  rare 
passengers. 

"And  you  ?"  Stoke  once  asked  her  in  a  moment  of 
unusual  expansion,  his  deep  voice  half  muffled  with 
suppressed  suspense. 

215 


STRANDED 

She  glanced  at  him  with  that  waiting  look  which 
he  knows  to  be  there,  but  never  meets.  For  he  is  a 
hard  man — hard  to  her,  harder  to  himself. 

"I,"  she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "I  sit  beside  him."' 
And  who  shall  gauge  a  woman's  dream  ? 


216 


PUTTING   THINGS   RIGHT 


XI 

PUTTING    THINGS    EIGHT 

"Want  Berlyng,"  he  seemed  to  be  saying,  though 
it  was  difficiilt  to  catch  the  words,  for  we  were  ahnost 
within  range,  and  the  fight  was  a  sharp  one.  It  was 
the  old  story  of  India  frontier  warfare ;  too  small  a 
force,  and  a  foe  foolishly  underrated. 

The  man  they  had  just  brought  in — laying  him 
hurriedly  on  a  bed  of  pine-needles,  in  the  shade  of 
the  conifers  where  I  had  halted  my  little  train — poor 
Charles  JSToon  of  the  Sikhs,  was  done  for.  His  right 
hand  was  off  at  the  wrist,  and  the  shoulder  was  almost 
severed. 

I  bent  my  ear  to  his  lips,  and  heard  the  words 
which  sounded  like  "Want  Berlyng." 

We  had  a  man  called  Berlyng  in  the  force — a 
gunner — who  was  roimd  at  the  other  side  of  the  fort 
that  was  to  be  taken  before  night,  two  miles  away 
at  least. 

"Do  you  want  Berlyng?"  I  asked  slowly  and  dis- 
tinctly. 

Noon  nodded,  and  his  lips  moved.  I  bent  my  head 
again  till  my  ear  almost  touched  his  lips. 

219 


PUTTING    THINGS   RIGHT 

"How  long  have  I  ?"  he  was  asking. 

"Not  long,  I'm  afraid,  old  chap." 

His  lips  closed  with  a  queer  distressed  look.  He 
was  sorry  to  die. 

"How  long  ?"  he  asked  again. 

"About  an  hour." 

But  I  knew  it  was  less.  I  attended  to  others, 
thinking  all  the  while  of  poor  Noon.  His  home  life 
was  little  known,  but  there  was  some  story  about  an 
engagement  at  Poonah  the  previous  warm  weather. 
Noon  was  rich,  and  he  cared  for  the  girl ;  but  she  did 
not  return  the  feeling.  In  fact,  there  was  some  one 
else.  It  appears  that  the  girl's  people  were  ambitious 
and  poor,  and  that  Noon  had  promised  large  settle- 
ments. At  all  events,  the  engagement  was  a  known 
affair,  and  gossips  whispered  that  Noon  knew  about 
the  some  one  else,  and  would  not  give  her  up.  He 
was,  I  know,  thought  badly  of  by  some,  especially  by 
the  elders,  who  had  found  out  the  value  of  money  as 
regards  happiness,  or  rather  the  complete  absence  of 
its  value. 

However,  the  end  of  it  all  lay  on  the  sheet  beneath 
the  pines,  and  watched  me  with  such  persistence  that 
I  was  at  last  forced  to  go  to  him. 

"Have  you  sent  for  Berlyng?"  he  asked,  with  a 
breathlessness  which  I  know  too  well. 

Now  I  had  not  sent  for  Berlyng,  and  it  requires 
more  nerve  than  I  possess  to  tell  unnecessary  lies  to 

220 


PUTTING    THIXGS    RIGHT 

a  dying  man.  The  necessary  ones  are  quite  different, 
and  I  shall  not  think  of  them  when  I  go  to  my  ac- 
count. 

"Berlyng  could  not  come  if  I  sent  for  him,"  I  re- 
plied soothingly.  "He  is  two  miles  away  from  here 
trenching  the  North  Wall,  and  I  have  nobody  to  send. 
The  messenger  would  have  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  the 
enemy's  earthworks." 

"I'll  give  the  man  a  hundred  pounds  who  does  it/* 
replied  Noon,  in  his  breathless  whisper.  "Berlyng 
will  come  sharp  enough  if  you  say  it's  from  me.  He 
hates  me  too  much."  He  broke  off  with  a  laugh  which 
made  me  feel  sick.  "Could  he  get  here  in  time,"  he 
asked  after  a  pause,  "if  you  sent  for  him  ?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  with  my  hand  inside  his  soaked 
tunic. 

I  found  a  wounded  water-carrier — a  fellow  with  a 
stray  bullet  in  his  hand — who  volunteered  to  find 
Berlyng,  and  then  I  returned  to  Noon  and  told  him 
what  I  had  done.  I  knew  that  Berlyng  could  not 
come. 

He  nodded,  and  I  think  he  said,  "God  bless  you.'* 
"I  want  to  put  something  right,"  he  said,  after  an 
effort;  "I've  been  a  blackguard." 

I  waited  a  little  in  case  Noon  wished  to  repose  some 
confidence  in  me.  Things  are  so  seldom  put  right 
that  it  is  wise  to  facilitate  such  intentions.  But  it  ap- 
peared obvious  that  what  Noon  had  to  say  could  only 

221 


PUTTING    THINGS    RIGHT 

be  said  to  Berlyng.  They  had,  it  subsequently  tran- 
spired, not  been  on  sj)eaking  terms  for  some 
months. 

I  was  turning  away  when  Noon  suddenly  cried  out 
in  his  natural  voice,  ''There  is  Berlyng." 

I  turned  and  saw  one  of  my  men,  Swearney,  carry- 
ing in  a  gunner.  It  might  be  Berlyng,  for  the  uni- 
form was  that  of  a  captain,  but  I  could  not  see  his 
face.     Noon,  however,  seemed  to  recognize  him. 

I  showed  Swearney  where  to  lay  his  man,  close 
to  me  alongside  Noon,  who  at  that  moment  required 
all  my  attention,  for  he  had  fainted. 

In  a  moment  Noon  recovered,  despite  the  heat, 
which  was  tremendous.  He  lay  quite  still  looking 
up  at  the  patches  of  blue  sky  between  the  dark  mo- 
tionless tojDS  of  the  pine  trees.  His  face  was  livid 
under  the  sunburn,  and  as  I  wiped  the  perspiration 
from  his  forehead  he  closed  his  eyes  with  the  abandon 
of  a  child.  Some  men,  I  have  found,  die  like  children 
going  to  sleep. 

He  slowly  recovered,  and  I  gave  him  a  few  drops  of 
brandy.  I  thought  he  was  dying  and  decided  to  let 
Berlyng  wait.  I  did  not  even  glance  at  him  as  he 
lay,  covered  with  dust  and  blackened  by  the  smoke 
of  his  beloved  nine-pounders,  a  little  to  the  left  of 
Noon  and  behind  me  as  I  knelt  at  the  latter's  side. 

After  a  while  his  eyes  grew  brighter,  and  he  began 
to  look  about  him.    He  turned  his  head,  painfully,  for 


PUTTIIs^G    THIXGS    RIGHT 

the  muscles  of  his  neck  were  injured,  and  caught  sight 
of  the  gunnner's  uniform. 

"Is  that  Berlyng  ?"  he  asked  excitedly. 

"Yes." 

He  dragged  himself  up  and  tried  to  get  nearer  to 
Berlyng.  And  I  helped  him.  They  were  close  along- 
side each  other.  Berlyng  was  lying  on  his  back, 
staring  up  at  the  blue  patches  between  the  pine 
trees. 

'Noon  turned  on  his  left  elbow  and  began  whisper- 
ing into  the  smoke-grimed  ear. 

"Berlyng,"  I  heard  him  say,  "I  was  a  blackguard. 
I  am  sorry,  old  man.  I  played  it  very  low  down.  It 
was  a  dirty  trick.  It  was  my  money — and  her  people 
were  anxious  for  her  to  marry  a  rich  man.  I  worked 
it  through  her  people.  I  wanted  her  so  badly  that  I 
forgot  I — ^was  supposed — to  be  a — gentleman.  I 
found  out — that  it  was  you — she  cared  for.  But  I 
couldn't  make  up  my  mind  to  give  her  up.  I  kept  her 
— to  her  word.  And  now  it's  all  up  with  me — but 
you'll  pull  through  and  it  will  all — come  right.  Give 
her  my — love — old  chap.  You  can  now — ^because  I'm 
— done.  I'm  glad  they  brought  you  in — because  I've 
been  able — to  tell  you — that  it  is  you  she  cares  for. 
You — Berlyng,  old  chap,  who  used  to  be  a  chum  of 
mine.  She  cares  for  you — God  !  you're  in  luck !  I 
don't  know  whether  she's  told  you — but  she  told  me 

— and  I  was — a  d d  blackguard," 

223 


PUTTING    THINGS    RIGHT 

His  jaw  suddenly  dropped,  and  he  rolled  forward 
with  his  face  against  Berlyng's  shoulder. 

Berlyng  was  dead  when  they  brought  him  in.  He 
had  heard  nothing.  Or  perhaps  he  had  heard  and 
understood — everything. 


224 


FOR  JUANITA'S   SAKE 


XII 

FOR    JUANITA'S    SAKE 

Cartonee,  of  the  Foreign  Office,  who  is  still  biding 
his  time,  is  not  tired  of  Spain  yet — and  it  must  be 
remembered  that  Cartoner  knows  the  Peninsula.  He 
began  to  know  it  twenty  years  ago,  and  his  knowledge 
is  worthy  of  the  name,  inasmuch  as  it  moves  with  the 
times.  Some  day  there  will  be  a  war  in  Spain,  and 
we  shall  fight  either  for  or  against  the  Don,  which 
exercise  Englishmen  have  already  enjoyed  more  than 
once.  Cartoner  hopes  that  it  may  come  in  his  time, 
when,  as  he  himself  puts  it,  he  will  be  "there  or  there- 
abouts." Had  not  a  clever  man  his  opportunity  when 
the  Russian  war  broke  out  and  he  alone  of  educated 
Britons  knew  the  Crimea?  That  clever  man  had  a 
queer  temper,  as  we  all  know,  and  so  lost  his  oppor- 
tunity ;  but,  if  he  gets  it,  Cartoner  will  take  his  chance 
coolly  and  steadily  enough.  In  the  meantime  he 
is,  if  one  may  again  borrow  his  own  terse  expression, 
"by  no  means  nowhere,"  for  in  the  Foreign  Office 
those  who  know  Spain  are  a  small  handful ;  and  those 
who,  like  Cartoner,  can  cross  the  Pyrenees  and  sul> 
merge  themselves  unheeded  in  the  quiet,  sleepy  life  of 

227 


FOR    JUANITA'S    SAKE 

Andalusia,  are  to  be  numbered  on  two  fingers,  and  no 
more.  When  a  question  of  Spain  or  of,  say,  Cuba 
arises,  a  bell  is  rung  in  the  high  places  of  the  Foreign 
Office,  and  a  messenger  in  livery  is  despatched  for 
Cartoner,  who,  as  likely  as  not,  will  be  discovered 
reading  El  Imparclal  in  his  room.  It  is  always  pleas- 
ant to  be  able  to  ring  a  bell  and  summon  a  man  who 
knows  the  difference  between  Andalusia  and  Cata- 
lonia— and  can  without  a  moment's  hesitation  say 
where  Cuba  is  and  to  what  Power  it  belongs,  such 
matters  not  always  being  quite  clear  to  the  compre- 
hension of  a  Cabinet  Minister  who  has  been  brought 
up  to  the  exclusive  knowledge  of  the  Law,  or  the  man- 
ufacture of  some  article  of  daily  domestic  consump- 
tion. 

While  possessing  his  knowledge  in  patience,  Car- 
toner  naturally  takes  a  mean  advantage  of  those  in 
high  places  who  have  it  not,  nor  yet  the  shadow  of  it. 
About  once  in  six  months  he  says  that  he  thinks  he 
ought  to  go  to  Spain,  and  raps  out  a  few  technicalities 
relating  to  the  politics  of  the  Peninsula.  A  couple 
of  days  later  he  sets  off  for  the  land  of  sun  and  sleep 
with  what  he  calls  his  Spanish  kit  in  portmanteau. 
This  he  purchased  in  the  "Sierpe"  for  forty  pesetas 
at  a  ready-made  tailor's,  where  it  was  labelled  "Fan- 
tasia." It  is  merely  a  tweed  suit,  but,  wearing  it, 
Cartoner  is  safe  from  the  reproach  that  doggeth  the 
step  of  the  British  tourist  abroad. 

228 


FOR   JUANITA'S    SAKE 

It  was  during  one  of  these  expeditions  that  Car- 
toner,  in  his  unobtrusive  way,  found  himself  in  To- 
ledo, where,  the  guide-books  tell  us,  the  traveller  will 
obtain  no  fit  accommodation.  It  was  evening,  and 
the  company  who  patronized  the  Cafe  of  the  New 
Gate  were  mostly  assembled  at  small  tables  in  the 
garden  of  that  house  of  entertainment.  The  moon 
was  rising  over  the  lower  lands  across  the  Tagus,  be- 
hind the  gate  which  gives  its  name  to  this  cafe.  It  is 
very  rightly  called  the  ISTew  Gate.  Did  not  Wemba 
build  it  in  the  sixth  century,  as  he  has  cheerfully 
written  upon  its  topmost  stone  ? 

Cartoner  sat  at  one  of  the  outside  tables,  where  the 
hydrangeas,  as  large  as  a  black  currant  bush,  are 
ranged  in  square  green  boxes  against  the  city  wall. 
He  was  thoughtfully  sipping  his  coffee  when  a  man 
crawled  between  his  legs  and  hid  himself  like  a  sick 
dog  between  Cartoner's  chair  and  the  hydrangea  trees. 
The  hiding-place  was  a  good  one,  provided  that  the 
fugitive  had  the  collusion  of  whosoever  sat  in  Car- 
toner's  chair. 

"His  Excellency  would  not  betray  a  poor  unfortu- 
nate," whispered  an  eager  voice  at  Cartoner's  elbow, 
while,  with  a  sang-froid  which  had  been  partly  ac- 
quired south  of  the  Pyrenees,  the  Briton  sat  and  gazed 
across  the  Tagus. 

"That  depends  upon  what  the  unfortunate  has  been 
after." 

229 


rOK    JUA^ITA'S    SAKE 

There  was  a  silence  while  Truth  wrestled  with  the 
Foe  in  the  shadows  of  the  bush  in  the  green  box. 

"His  Excellency  is  not  of  Toledo." 

"ISTor  yet  of  Spain,"  replied  Cartoner,  knowing  that 
it  is  good  to  speak  the  truth  at  times. 

"They  have  chased  me  from  Algodor.  They  on 
horseback,  I  running  through  the  forest.  You  will 
hear  them  rattling  across  the  bridge  soon.  If  I  can 
only  lie  hidden  here  until  they  have  ridden  on  into 
the  town,  I  can  double  and  get  away  to  Barcelona." 

Cartoner  was  leaning  forward  on  the  little  tin  table, 
his  chin  in  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"You  must  not  speak  too  loud,"  he  said,  "especially 
when  the  music  is  still." 

For  the  Cafe  of  the  IS^ew  Gate  had  the  additional 
attraction  of  what  the  proprietor  called  a  concert.  The 
same  consisting  of  a  guitar  and  a  bright-colored  violin, 
the  latter  in  the  hands  of  a  wandering  scoundrel,  who 
must  have  had  good  in  him  somewhere — it  peeped 
out  in  the  lower  notes. 

"Has  his  Excellency  had  coffee  ?"  inquired  the  man 
behind  Cartoner's  chair. 

"Yes." 

"Does  any  sugar  remain  ?  I  have  not  eaten  since 
morning," 

Cartoner  dropped  the  two  square  pieces  of  sugar 
over  his  shoulder,  and  there  was  a  sound  of  grinding. 

230 


FOR  jua:j^ita's  sake 

"His  Excellency  will  not  give  me  up.     I  can  slip 
a  knife  into  his  Excellency's  liver  where  I  sit." 
''I  know  that.    What  have  you  been  doing  ?" 
"I  killed  Emmanuelo  Dembaza,  that  is  all." 
"Indeed — why  kill  Senor  Dembaza  ?" 
"I  did  it  for  Juanita's  sake." 
A  queer  smile  flitted  across  Cartoner's  face.     He 
was  a  philosopher  in  his  way,  and  knew  that  such 
things  must  be. 

"He  was  a  scoundrel,  and  had  already  ruined  one 
poor  girl,"  went  on  the  voice  from  the  tree.  The 
cheap  violin  was  speaking  about  good  and  bad  mixed 
together  again — and  to  talk  aloud  was  safe.  "But  she 
was  no  better  than  she  should  be — a  tobacco-worker. 
And  tobacco  for  work  or  pleasure  ever  ruins  a  woman, 
Sehor.  Look  at  Seville.  But  Juanita  is  different. 
She  irons  the  fine  linen.  She  is  good — as  good  as  his 
Excellency's  mother — and  beautiful.  Maria !  His 
Excellency  should  see  her  eyes.  You  know  what  eyes 
some  Spanish  women  have.  A  history  and  something 
one  does  not  understand." 

"Yes,"  answered  Cartoner  again.  "I  know." 
"Juanita  thought  she  liked  him,"  went  on  the  voice, 
bringing  its  hearer  suddenly  back  to  Toledo;  "she 
thought  she  liked  him  until  she  found  him  out.  Then 
he  turned  upon  her  and  said  things  that  were  not  true. 
Such  things,  Seiior,  ruin  a  girl,  whether  they  be  true 

231 


FOR   JUANITA'S    SAKE 

or  not — especially  if  the  women  begin  to  talk.    Is  it 
not  so  ?" 

"Yes." 

"She  told  me  of  it,  and  we  decided  that  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  kill  Emmanuelo  Dembaza.  She 
kissed  me,  Excellency,  and  every  time  she  did  that  I 
would  kill  a  man  if  she  asked  me." 

"Indeed." 

"Yes,  Excellency." 

"And  if  you  are  taken  and  sent  to  prison  for,  say, 
twenty  years  ?"  suggested  Cartoner. 

"Then  Juanita  will  drown  herself.  She  has 
sworn  it." 

"And  if  I  do  not  give  you  up  ?    If  you  escape  ?" 

"She  will  follow  me  to  Argentina,  Excellency; 
and,  Madre  de  Dios,  we  shall  get  married." 

At  this  moment  the  waiter  came  up,  cigarette  in 
mouth,  after  the  manner  of  Spain,  and  suggested  a 
second  cup  of  coifee,  to  which  Cartoner  assented — 
with  plenty  of  sugar. 

"Have  you  money  ?"  asked  Cartoner,  when  they 
were  alone  again. 

"No,  Seiior." 

"In  this  world  it  is  no  use  being  a  criminal  unless 
you  are  rich.  If  you  are  poor  you  must  be  honest. 
That  is  the  first  rule  of  the  game." 

"I  am  as  poor  as  a  street-dog,"  said  the  voice,  un- 
concernedly. 

232 


FOE    JUANITA'S    SAKE 

"And  you  would  not  take  a  loan  as  from  one  gentle- 
man to  another  ?" 

"No,"  answered  Spanish  pride,  crouching  in  the 
bushes,  "I  could  not  do  that." 

Cartoner  reflected  for  some  moments.  "In  the 
country  from  which  I  come,"  he  said  at  length,  "we 
have  a  very  laudable  reverence  for  relics  and  a  very 
delicate  taste  in  such  matters.  If  one  man  shoots 
another  we  like  to  see  the  gun,  and  we  pay  sixty 
centimes  to  look  upon  it.  There  are  people  who  make 
an  honest  living  by  such  exliibitions.  If  they  cannot 
get  the  gun  they  put  another  in  its  place,  and  it  is  all 
the  same.  Now,  your  knife — the  one  the  Seiiorita 
sharpens  with  a  kiss — in  my  country  it  will  have  its 
value.  Suppose  I  buy  it;  suppose  we  say  five  hun- 
dred pesetas  ?" 

And  Cartoner's  voice  was  the  voice  of  innocence. 

There  was  silence  for  some  time,  and  at  last  the 
knife  came  up  handlewise  between  the  leaves  of  the 
hydrangea.  Spanish  pride  is  always  ready  to  shut 
its  eyes. 

"But  you  must  swear  that  what  you  tell  me  is  true 
and  that  Juanita  will  join  you  in  Argentina.  Honor 
of  a  gentleman." 

"Honor  of  a  gentleman,"  repeated  the  voice;  and 
the  hand  of  a  blacksmith  came  through  the  leaves, 
seeking  Cartoner's  grasp. 

"They  are  turning  the  lights  out,"  said  Cartoner 

233 


FOR    JUANITA'S    SAKE 

when  the  bargain  was  concluded.  '^Biit  I  will  wait 
until  it  is  safe  to  leave  you  here.  Your  friends  the 
guardia  civile  do  not  arrive." 

"Pardon,  Seiior,  I  think  I  hear  them." 

And  the  fugitive's  ears  did  not  err.  For  presently 
a  tall  man,  white  with  dust  in  his  great  swinging  cloak, 
stalked  suspiciously  among  the  tables,  looking  into 
each  face.  He  saluted  Cartoner,  who  was  better 
dressed  than  the  other  frequenters  of  the  Cafe  of  the 
iSTew  Gate,  and  passed  on.     A  horrid  moment. 

"The  good  God  will  mostly  likely  remember  that 
you  have  done  this  deed  to-night,"  said  the  voice, 
with  a  queer  break  in  it. 

"He  may,"  answered  Cartoner,  who  was  lighting 
his  cigarette  before  going.  "On  the  other  hand,  I 
may  get  five  years  in  a  Spanish  prison." 


234 


AT  THE   FRONT 


XIII 

AT    THE    FKONT 

"  Some  one  who  is  not  girlish  now." 

It  was  only  yesterday  that  I  saw  her.  It  happened 
that  the  string  of  carriages  was  stopped  at  that  mo- 
ment, and  I  went  to  the  door  of  her  comfortable-look- 
ing barouche. 

*'Do  you  ever  feel  that  shoulder,"  I  asked,  raising 
my  hat,  "at  the  changes  of  the  weather,  or  when  it  is 
damp  ?" 

She  turned  and  looked  at  me  in  surprise.  Her  face 
had  altered  little.  It  was  the  face  of  a  happy  woman, 
despite  a  few  lines,  which  were  not  the  marks  left  by 
a  life  of  gayety  and  dissipation.  They  were  not  quite 
the  lines  that  Time  had  drawn  on  the  faces  of  the 
women  in  the  carriages  around  her.  In  some  ways 
she  looked  younger  than  most  of  them,  and  her  eyes 
had  an  expression  which  was  lacking  in  the  gas- 
wearied  orbs  of  her  fashionable  sisters.  It  was  the 
shadowy  reflection  of  things  seen. 

She  looked  into  my  face — noting  the  wear  and 

237 


AT    THE    FRONT 

tear  that  life  had  left  there.      Then  suddenly  she 
smiled  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"You!"  she  said.     "You — how  strange!" 

She  blushed  suddenly  and  laughed  with  a  pretty 
air  of  embarrassment  which  was  startingly  youthful. 

''Xo,"  she  went  on,  in  answer  to  my  question ;  "I 
never  feel  that  shoulder  now — thanks  to  you." 

There  were  a  number  of  questions  I  wanted  to 
ask  her.  But  I  had  fallen  into  a  habit,  years  ago,  of 
restraining  that  inexpedient  desire ;  and  she  did  not 
seem  to  expect  interrogation.  Besides,  I  could  see 
many  answers  in  her  face. 

"You  limped  just  now,"  she  said,  leaning  towards 
me  with  a  little  grave  air  of  sympathy  which  was 
quite  familiar  to  me — like  an  old  friend  forgotten 
until  seen  again.  "You  limped  as  you  crossed  the 
road." 

"I  shall  limp  until  the  end  of  the  chapter." 

"And  you  have  been  at  that  work  ever  since  ?" 

"Yes." 

She  looked  past  me  over  the  trees  of  the  Park 
— as  if  looking  back  into  a  bygone  period  of  her  life. 

"Will  you  come  and  dine  to-morrow  night?"  she 
said  suddenly.  "Fred  will  be  .  .  .  very  pleased  to 
see  you.     And — I  want  to  show  jou  the  children." 

The  line  of  carriages  moved  on  slowly  tmvards  the 
Park  gate,  and  left  me  baring  a  grizzled  old  bullet- 
head  in  answer  to  her  smile  and  nod. 

238 


AT    THE    FRONT 

As  I  limped  along  it  all  came  back  to  me.  A  good 
many  years  before — in  the  days  when  hard  work  was 
the  salt  of  life — I  was  entrusted  with  my  first  field 
hospital.  I  Avas  sent  up  to  the  front  by  the  cleverest 
surgeon  and  the  poorest  organizer  that  ever  served  the 
Queen. 

Ah,  that  ivas  a  field  hospital !  My  first !  We  were 
within  earshot  of  the  front — that  is  to  say,  we  could 
hear  the  platoon  firing.  And  when  the  wounded 
came  in  we  thought  only  of  patching  them  up  tempo- 
rarily— sewing,  bandaging,  and  plastering  them  into 
travelling  order,  and  sending  them  down  to  the  head- 
quarters at  the  coast.  It  was  a  weary  journey  across 
the  desert,  and  I  am  afraid  a  few  were  buried  on 
the  way. 

Early  one  morning,  I  remember,  they  brought  in 
Boulson,  and  I  saw  at  once  that  he  had  come  to  stay. 
We  could  not  patch  him  up  and  send  him  off.  The 
jolting  of  the  ambulance  wagon  had  done  its  work, 
and  Boulson  was  insensible  when  they  laid  him  on 
one  of  the  field-cots.  He  remained  insensible  while 
I  got  his  things  off.  The  wound  told  its  own  story. 
He  had  been  at  the  hand-to-hand  work  again,  and 
a  bayonet  never  meets  a  broad-headed  spear  without 
trouble  coming  of  it.  Boulson  meant  to  get  on — con- 
sequently I  had  had  him  before.  I  had  cut  his  shirt 
off  him  before  this,  and  knew  that  it  was  marked 
"F.  L.  G.  M.,"  which  does  not  stand  for  Boulson. 

239 


AT    THE    FKONT 

Boulson's  name  was  not  Boulson ;  but  that  was  not 
our  business  at  the  time.  We  who  patch  up  Thomas 
Atkins  when  he  gets  hurt  in  the  interests  of  his  Queen 
and  country  are  never  surprised  to  find  that  the  ini- 
tials on  his  underlinen  do  not  tally  with  those  in  the 
regimental  books.  When  the  military  millennium 
arrives,  and  ambulance  services  are  perfect,  we  shall 
report  things  more  fully.  Something  after  this  style 
— "Killed :  William  Jones.  Coronet  on  his  razor-case. 
Linen  marked  A.  de  M.  F.  G." 

While  I  was  busy  with  a  sponge,  Boulson  opened 
his  eyes  and  recognized  me. 

"Soon  got  you  back  again,"  I  remarked,  with 
ghastly  professional  cheeriness. 

He  smiled  feebly.  "Must  get  into  the  despatches 
somehow,"  he  answered,  and  promptly  fainted  again. 

I  took  especial  care  of  Boulson,  being  mindful  of  a 
letter  I  had  received  while  he  was  recovering  from  his 
last  wound.  It  was  a  long  and  rambling  letter,  dated 
from  a  place  on  the  west  coast  of  Ireland.  It  was 
signed  with  a  name  which  surprised  me,  and  the 
writer,  who  addressed  me  as  "Sir,"  and  mentioned 
that  he  was  my  humble  servant,  stated  that  he  was 
Boulson's  father.  At  least  he  said  he  thought  he  was 
Boulson's  father — if  Boulson  was  tall  and  fair,  with 
blue  eyes,  and  a  pepper-caster  mark  on  his  right  arm, 
where  a  charge  of  dust-shot  had  lodged  from  a  horse- 
pistol.    There  had,  he  informed  me,  been  family  mis- 

240 


AT    THE    FRONT 

understandings  about  a  foolish  fancy  formed  by  Boul- 
son  for  a  military  career.  And  Boulson  had  gone  off — 
God  bless  him — like  the  high-spirited  Irishman  that 
he  was — to  enlist  as  a  private  soldier.  And  then  came 
the  news  of  the  serious  wound,  and  if  there  was  a  God 
in  heaven  (which  I  never  doubted),  any  kindness  and 
care  that  I  could  bestow  upon  Boulson  would  not  be 
forgotten  at  the  last  reckoning.  And  more  to  a  like 
effect. 

Moreover,  Boulson  pulled  through  and  was  duly 
sent  down  to  the  fine,  roomy  convalescent  hospital  on 
the  coast,  where  they  have  ice,  and  newspapers,  and 
female  nurses  fresh  from  Netley. 

This  second  wound  was,  however,  a  more  serious 
affair.  While  others  came  and  went,  Boulson  seemed 
inclined  to  stay  forever.  At  all  events  he  stayed  for 
ten  days  and  made  no  progress  worth  mentioning. 

At  the  end  of  that  time  I  was  sitting  at  my  table 
writing  perversions  of  God's  truth  to  the  old  gentle- 
man on  the  west  coast  of  Ireland  when  I  heard  the 
rumble  of  ambulance  wagons.  I  thought  that  it  was 
only  a  returned  empty — there  having  been  an  infor- 
mal funeral  that  evening — so  hardly  disturbed  myself. 

Presently,  however,  some  one  came  and  stood  in 
front  of  my  table  outside  the  tent.  I  looked  up,  and 
looked  into  the  face  of  one  of  the  few  women  I  have 
met  who  make  me  believe  in  love  stories. 

"Halloa !"  I  said,  somewhat  rudely. 

241 


(C\ 


AT    THE    FRONT 

'I  beg  to  report  myself,"  she  answered  quietly. 

There  was  a  peculiar  unsteadiness  in  her  eyes.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  this  woman  was  laboring  under 
great  excitement. 

"Did  the  Surgeon-Major  send  you  ?"  I  asked. 

"I  volunteered." 

"Hum !  I  think  I  ought  to  have  been  asked  first. 
This  is  no  place  for  women." 

"Wherever  there  is  nursing  to  be  done,  we  can 
hardly  be  out  of  place,"  she  answered,  with  a  determi- 
nation which  puzzled  me. 

"Theoretically,"  I  answered ;  and,  seeing  that  she 
had  arrived,  I  made  a  shift  to  find  her  suitable  quar- 
ters and  get  her  to  work. 

"Have  you  any  serious  cases?"  she  asked,  while 
unpacking  and  setting  out  for  my  inspection  sundry 
stores  she  had  brought. 

"I  have  Boulson  again,"  I  answered.  "The  man 
you  had  in  the  spring." 

She  buried  her  head  in  the  case,  and  did  not  answer 
for  some  seconds. 

When  at  length  she  did  speak,  her  voice  was  in- 
different and  careless. 

"Badly  hurt  ?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

She  finished  unpacking  her  stores  rather  hurriedly, 
and  expressed  her  readiness  to  go  round  the  cots 
with  me. 

242 


AT    THE    FRONT 

"Are  you  not  too  tired  after  your  journey  ?" 

"No,  I — I  should  like  to  begin  at  once.  Please 
let  me." 

I  took  her  round,  and  altogether  I  was  pleased  with, 
her. 

In  a  day  or  two  I  almost  became  resigned  to  her 
presence,  though  I  hate  having  women  anywhere  near 
the  action.  It  is  always  better  to  get  the  nasty  cases 
cleaned  up  before  the  women  see  them. 

Then  suddenly  came  bad  news.  There  was  some- 
thing wrong  at  the  front.  Our  fellows  were  falling 
back  upon  us.  A  final  stand  was  to  be  made  at  our 
position  until  reinforcements  came  up. 

I  sent  for  Nurse  Fielding  and  told  her  to  get  ready 
to  leave  for  headquarters  at  once.  I  was  extremely 
business-like  and  formal.  She  was  neither.  That  is 
the  worst  of  women. 

"Please  let  me  stay,"  she  said.    "Please." 

I  shook  my  head. 

"I  would  rather  stay  and  be  killed  than  go  away 
and  be  safe." 

That  aroused  my  suspicions.  Perhaps  they  ought 
to  have  been  aroused  before;  but,  then,  I  am  only  a 
man.  I  saw  how  the  Surgeon-Major  had  been  man- 
aged. 

"Please,"  she  repeated  softly. 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  did  not  withdraw 
it  when  she  found  that  the  sleeve  was  wet  with  some- 
thing that  was  thicker  than  water. 

243 


AT    THE    FRONT 

"Please,"  she  whispered. 

"Oh,  all  right— stay!" 

I  was  sorry  for  it  the  next  day,  when  we  had  the 
old  familiar  music  of  the  bullets  overhead. 

Later  in  the  morning  matters  became  more  serious. 
The  enemy  had  a  gun  with  which  they  dropped  six- 
pound  shot  into  us.  One  of  these  fell  on  to  the  corner 
of  our  hospital  where  Boulson  lay.  It  tore  the  canvas, 
and  almost  closed  Boulson's  career. 

IsTurse  Fielding  was  at  him  like  a  terrier,  and 
lifted  him  bodily  from  his  cot.  She  was  one  of  those 
largely  framed  fair  women  who  have  strength,  both 
physical  and  mental. 

She  was  carrying  him  across  the  tent  when  I  heard 
the  thud  of  a  bullet.  Nurse  Fielding  stopped  for  a 
moment  and  seemed  to  hesitate.  She  laid  Boulson 
tenderly  down  on  the  ground,  and  then  fell  across 
him,  while  the  blood  ran  from  her  cotton  bodice  over 
his  face  and  neck. 

And  that  was  what  I  meant  when  I  asked  the  lady 
in  the  barouche  at  the  Park  gate  whether  she  ever 
felt  that  shoulder  now.  And  the  man  I  dine  with 
to-night  is  not  called  Boulson,  but  he  has  a  charge  of 
dust-shot — the  result  of  a  boyish  experiment — in  his 
right  arm. 


244 


THE   END   OF   THE    "MOOROO" 


XIV 

THE   END    OF    THE    "MOOROO" 

"How  long  can  you  give  us  ?" 

The  man  who  asked  this  question  turned  his  head 
and  looked  up  through  a  maze  of  bright  machinery. 
But  he  did  not  rise  from  his  recumbent  position.  He 
was,  in  fact,  lying  on  his  face  on  a  steel-bar  grating — 
in  his  shirt-sleeves — his  hands  black  with  oil  and  steel 
filings. 

The  captain  of  the  Mooroo — far  up  above  on  the 
upper  platform — leant  his  elbow  on  the  steel  banister 
and  reflected  for  exactly  two  seconds.  He  was  in  the 
habit  of  sleeping  and  thinking  very  quickly. 

"I  reckon  that  we  will  be  on  the  rocks  in  about 
twenty  minutes  to  half  an  hour — unless  you  can  get 
her  going." 

The  chief  engineer  muttered  something  which  waS 
not  audible  above  the  roar  of  the  wind  through  the 
rigging  and  the  wash  of  the  green  seas  that  leapt  over 
the  bulwarks  of  the  well-deck. 

"What?"  yelled  the  captain,  leaning  over  the 
balustrade. 

247 


THE    END    OF    THE    "MOOROO" 

"D n  it,"  reiterated  the  chief,  with  his  head 

hidden. 

They  were  all  down  there — the  whole  engineer's 
staff  of  the  Mooroo — in  their  shirt-sleeves,  lying 
among  the  bright  steel  rods — busy  at  their  craft — 
working  against  time  for  their  lives. 

It  was  unfortunate  that  the  engines  should  have 
held  good  right  across  the  Arabian  Sea,  through  the 
Red  Sea,  through  the  trying  "fast"  and  "slow"  and 
"stand  by"  and  "go  ahead"  of  the  Canal — right 
through  to  the  Pointe  de  Raz  light,  which  was  blink- 
ing down  upon  them  now. 

The  ship  had  been  got  round  with  difficulty.  Her 
sails,  all  black  with  coal-dust  and  the  smoke  of 
many  voyages,  had  been  shaken  out.  They  served 
to  keep  the  vessel's  bluff  prow  pushing  into  the 
gale,  but  that  was  all.  The  Mooroo  was  drifting — 
drifting. 

While  the  passengers  were  at  dinner  the  engines  had 
suddenly  stopped,  and  almost  before  the  fact  had  been 
realized,  the  captain,  having  exchanged  glances  with 
his  officers,  was  out  of  the  saloon. 

"Something  in  the  engine-room,"  said  the  doctor 
and  the  fifth  officer — left  at  table.  The  engineer  had 
probably  stopped  to  replace  a  worn  washer  or  some- 
thing similarly  simple. 

The  stewards  hurried  to  and  fro  with  the  dishes. 
And  the  passengers  went  on  eating  their  last  dinner 

248 


THE    END    OF    THE    "MOOROO" - 

on  earth  in  that  sublime  ignorance  which  is  the  pre- 
rogative of  passengers. 

Mrs.  Judge  Barrowby,  who,  in  view  of  the  captain's 
vacant  chair  on  her  left  hand,  took,  as  it  were,  moral 
command  of  the  ship,  was  heard  to  state  in  a  loud  voice 
that  she  had  every  confidence  in  the  officers  and  the 
crew. 

Young  Skeen,  of  the  Indian  Intelligence,  who  sat 
within  hearing  of  Mrs.  Judge  Barrowby,  for  his  own 
evil  ends  and  purposes,  thereafter  said  that  he  could 
now  proceed  with  his  dinner — that  his  appetite  was 
beginning  to  return. 

"Of  course,"  he  went  on  to  say,  "if  Mrs.  Judge 
Barrowby  said  that  it  is  all  right " 

But  he  got  no  farther  than  this.  For  a  young  lady 
with  demure  eyes  and  twitching  lips,  who  was  sittting 
next  to  him,  whispered  that  Mrs.  Judge  Barrowby 
was  looking,  and  that  he  must  behave  himself. 

"I  have  every  confidence  in  Mrs.  Judge  Barrowby," 
he,  nevertheless,  managed  to  assure  a  grave-looking 
man  across  the  table. 

The  truth  was  that  Mrs.  Judge  Barrowby  had  had 
her  eye  on  these  two  young  people  all  the  voyage. 
There  was  no  reason  that  they  should  not  fall  in  love 
with  each  other,  and  marry  and  be  happy  ever  after- 
wards ;  but  Mrs.  Judge  Barrowby  felt  that  it  was 
incumbent  upon  them  to  ask  her  first,  or  at  all  events 
to  keep  her  posted  as  to  the  progress  of  matters,  so 

249 


THE    END    OF    THE    "MOOROO" 

that  she  might  have  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  more 
than  her  neighbors.  But  the  young  people  simply 
ignored  her. 

Lady  Crafer,  the  mother  of  the  girl  with  the  de- 
mure eyes,  was  a  foolish  woman,  who  passed  most  of 
her  days  in  her  cabin ;  and  Mrs.  Judge  Barrowby  felt, 
and  went  so  far  as  to  say  to  more  than  one  person, 
that  the  least  that  a  nice-minded  girl  could,  under  the 
circumstances,  do  was  to  place  herself  under  the  pro' 
tection  of  some  experienced  lady — possibly  herself. 
From  the  fact  that  Evelyn  Crafer  had  failed  to  do 
this,  Mrs.  Judge  Barrowby  intimated  that  each  might 
draw  an  individual  inference. 

While  these  thoughts  were  in  course  of  lithography 
upon  the  expressive  countenance  of  the  lady  at  the 
captain's  end  of  the  saloon  table,  strange  things  were 
taking  place  on  the  deck  of  the  good  steamship 
Moor 00.  The  entire  crew  had,  in  fact,  been  sum- 
moned on  deck.  The  boats  were  being  pushed  out — 
the  davits  swung  round,  the  tarpaulin  covers  removed, 
and  the  awnings  unbent.  Life-belts  were  being  col- 
lected in  the  music-room  on  deck,  and  the  purser  had 
given  orders  to  the  stewards  to  prolong  dinner  as  much 
as  possible. 

"Let  'em  have  their  dinner  first,"  the  captain  had 
said  significantly. 

And  all  the  while  the  Mooroo  was  drifting. 

Immediately  over  the  stern  rail  a  light  came  and 

250 


THE    END    OF    THE    "MOOKOO" 

went  at  regular  intervals  on  the  horizon,  while  to 
eastward,  at  a  higher  elevation,  a  great,  yellow  staring 
eye  looked  out  into  the  night.  This  was  the  light  on 
the  westernmost  point  of  Europe — the  Pointe  de  Raz. 
The  smaller  beacon,  low  down  on  the  horizon,  was 
that  of  the  He  de  Sein,  whose  few  inhabitants  live  by 
what  the  sea  brings  them  in — be  it  fish  or  wreckage. 
There  is  enough  of  both.  A  strong  current  sets  north 
and  east,  and  it  becomes  almost  a  ''race"  in  the  nar- 
row channel  between  the  He  de  Sein  and  the  rock- 
bound  mainland.    The  Mooroo  was  in  this  current. 

The  captain  had  said  no  more  than  the  truth. 
There  are  times  when  nature  is  too  strong  for  the 
strongest  man  and  the  keenest  brain.  There  was 
simply  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  try  and  get  the  re- 
pair completed  in  time — and  on  deck  to  send  up  rock- 
ets, and — to  prepare  for  the  worst.  This  the  captain 
had  done — even  to  unlacing  his  own  boots.  The  latter 
is  always  a  bad  sign.  When  the  captain  thinks  of  his 
own  boots  it  is  time  for  others  to  try  and  remember 
the  few  good  deeds  they  may  have  done. 

In  ten  minutes  the  passengers  knew;  for  the  cap- 
tain went  and  told  them — before  they  had  their  des- 
sert. The  result  was  confusion,  and  a  rush  for  the 
saloon  stairs.  The  boats  were  already  lowered  and 
alongside  the  gangway  steps  in  a  terrible  sea. 

The  old  ladies  did  wonderfully  well,  considering 
their  age  and  other  things.    Mrs.  Judge  Barrowby  was 

251 


THE    END    OF    THE    "MOOROO" 

heard  to  saj  that  she  would  never  travel  by  anything 
but  P.  and  O.  in  future,  and  that  it  was  all  her  hus- 
band's fault.  But  she  was  third  on  the  stairs,  and  in 
time  to  select  the  roomiest  life-belt.  Lady  Crafer  was 
a  great  believer  in  stewards.  She  clung  to  one,  and, 
calling  upon  Evelyn  to  follow  her,  made  very  good 
practice  down  the  saloon. 

There  was  no  doubt  whatever  about  young  Skeen 
of  the  Indian  Intelligence.  He  simply  took  charge 
of  Evelyn  Crafer.  He  took  possession  of  her  and  told 
her  what  to  do.  He  even  found  time  to  laugh  at  Mrs. 
Judge  Barrowby's  ankles  as  she  leapt  over  a  pile  of 
dirty  plates. 

"Stay  here,"  he  cried  to  Evelyn.  "It  is  useless 
going  with  that  rabble.     Our  only  chance  is  to  stay." 

She  obeyed  him.  Women  sometimes  do  it  still. 
They  stood  in  the  gayly  lighted  saloon,  and  witnessed 
the  rush  for  the  deck — a  humiliating  sight. 

When  at  length  the  stairs  were  clear,  Skeen  turned 
and  looked  into  her  face.  Then  suddenly  he  took  her 
in  his  arms  and  kissed  her.  They  had  been  drifting 
towards  this  for  some  weeks  past.  Circumstances  had 
hurried  it  on.     That  was  all. 

"Dear,"  he  said,  "will  you  stay  here  while  I  go 
on  deck  and  see  what  chances  there  are  ?  If  you  once 
get  up  there  in  the  dark  and  the  confusion,  I  shall 
lose  you." 

"Yes,"  she  answered ;  and  as  she  spoke  there  was  a 

252 


THE    END    OF    THE    ''MOOROO" 

great  crash,  which  threw  her  into  his  arms  a  second 
time,  and  made  a  clean  sweep  of  the  tables.  Thej 
stood  literally  ankle-deep  in  wine-glasses,  dessert,  and 
plates.  The  Mooroo  had  taken  the  rocks.  There  was 
a  rolling  crash  on  the  deck  overhead,  and  a  confused 
sound  of  shouting. 

"You  will  stay  ?"  cried  Skeen  again. 

"Yes— dear." 

He  turned  and  left  her  there,  alone. 

On  deck  he  found  a  crowd.  The  passengers  were 
being  allowed  to  go  to  the  boats.  Taking  into  con- 
sideration the  darkness,  the  roaring  sea,  and  the  hope- 
lessness of  it  all,  the  organization  was  wonderful.  The 
children  were  going  first.  A  quarter-master  stood  at 
the  head  of  the  gang\vay  steps  and  held  the  people  in 
check.  When  Skeen  arrived,  Mrs.  Judge  Barrowby 
was  giving  this  man  a  piece  of  what  she  was  pleased 
to  call  her  mind. 

"Man,"  she  was  saying,  "let  me  pass !  You  do  not 
know  who  I  am.    I  am  the  wife  of  Judge  Barrowby." 

"Mann,  you  may  be  the  wife  of  the  harkangel 
Gabriel  as  far  as  I  knows;  but  I've  my  orders. 
Stand  aside  please.  Any  more  babies  in  arms  ?"  he 
cried. 

But  Mrs.  Judge  Barrowby  knew  the  value  of  a 
good  useful  life,  and  persistently  blocked  up  the 
gangway. 

"One  woman  is  as  good  as  another,"  she  said. 

253 


THE    END    OF    THE    "MOOEOO" 

"Ay,  except  the  mothers,  and  they're  better,"  said 
the  man,  pushing  her  aside  to  let  a  lady  and  her  child 
pass. 

"That  woman !"  cried  Mrs.  Judge  Barrowby.  "A 
woman  who  has  been  the  talk  of  the  whole  ship — be- 
fore me — a  flirting  grass  widow !" 

"Gawd  knows,"  said  the  man,  holding  her  back. 
"It's  little  enough  to  fight  about." 

"I  will  report  you,  man." 

"Yes,  marm,  to  the  good  God,  and  I  ain't  afraid  o' 
Him !    Now  you  may  go !" 

And,  fuming,  Mrs.  Judge  Barrowby  went  down  to 
her  death.  Not  one  boat  could  reach  the  shore  through 
such  a  surf,  as  captain  and  crew  well  knew ;  but  there 
are  certain  formalities  vis-a-vis  to  human  lives  which 
must  be  observed  by  ship-captains  and  doctors  and 
others. 

Skeen  ran  to  the  other  side.  Lights  were  twinkling 
through  the  spray;  the  land  was  not  two  hundred 
yards  off,  but  it  was  two  hundred  yards  of  rock  and 
surf.     There  was  only  one  chance. 

Skeen  kicked  off  his  boots  and  ran  back  to  the 
saloon.  It  was  all  a  matter  of  seconds.  For  a  few 
moments  the  brilliant  lights  dazzled  him,  and  he 
looked  round  wildly  for  Evyeln  Crafer.  A  great  fear 
seized  his  heart  as  in  a  grip  of  cold  iron — but  only 
for  a  moment.  He  saw  her.  She  was  kneeling  by 
the  table,  unaware  of  his  presence. 

254 


THE    END    OE    THE    "MOOEOO" 

"Oh,  God,"  she  was  praying  aloud,  "save  him — 
save  him  from  this  danger!" 

He  heard  the  words  as  he  stopped  to  lift  her  like 
a  child  from  her  knees — bringing  her  back  from  God 
to  man. 

And  the  end  of  the  Mooroo  was  a  girl  sitting  before 
a  driftwood  fire  in  the  cottage  of  the  old  cure  of  the 
He  de  Sein,  while  at  her  feet  knelt  a  man  with  his 
broken  arm  bound  to  his  side.  And  he  was  stroking 
her  hands  softly  and  repeatedly.  He  was  trying  to 
soothe  her  and  make  her  understand  that  she  was 
safe. 

"Give  her  time,  my  son,"  the  old  cure  said,  with 
his  deep,  wise  smile.  "She  only  requires  time.  I 
have  seen  them  before  taken  from  the  sea  like  her. 
They  all  require  time.  It  is  in  our  nature  to  recover 
from  all  things — in  time." 


255 


IN   A   CARAVAN 


XV 

m   A    CARAVAN" 

*'  Which  means,  I  think,  that  go  or  stay 
Aflfects  you  nothing,  either  way." 

"And  that  is  where  Parker  sleeps." 

We  craned  our  necks,  and,  stooping  low,  saw  be- 
neath the  vehicle  a  parasitic  square  box  like  a  huge 
barnacle  fixed  to  the  bottom  of  the  van.  A  box  about 
four  feet  by  two.  The  door  of  it  was  open,  and  Par- 
ker's bedfellows — two  iron  buckets  and  a  sack  of  pota- 
toes— stood  confessed. 

"Oh  yes — very  nice,"  we  murmured. 

"Oh,  it's  awfully  jolly!"  said  the  host-in-himself. 

We  looked  at  Parker,  who  was  peeling  potatoes  on 
the  off-shaft — Parker,  six  feet  two,  with  a  soldier's 
bearing — and  we  drifted  off  into  thought. 

"And  who  drives  ?"  we  asked,  with  an  intelligent 
interest. 

"Oh,  Parker.    And  we  do  all  the  rest,  you  know." 

It  was  seven  o'clock  in  the  evening  when  we  joined 
the  caravan,  in  a  stackyard  on  the  outskirts  of  an 
Eastern  county  town. 

259 


m   A    CAKAVAN 

"That's  'im — that's  Lord  George  Sanger,"  was  said 
of  the  writer  by  one  of  the  crowd  of  small  boys  as- 
sembled at  the  stackyard  gate.  A  travelling  menag- 
erie and  circus  was  advertised  in  a  somewhat  "voy- 
ant"  manner  on  the  town  walls,  and  a  fancied  re- 
semblance to  the  aristocratic  manager  thereof 
accredited  us  with  an  honorable  connection  in  the 
enterprise. 

"When  do  you  open?"  inquired  an  intelligent 
spectator,  anxious  to  show  savoir  faire. 

"See  small  handbills,"  replied  the  host-in-himself, 
with  equal  courtesy. 

"  'Oo  are  yer,  at  any  rate  ?"  inquired  an  enlight- 
ened voter. 

"Who  are  you  f "  we  replied  with  spirit ;  and,  pass- 
ing through  the  gate,  we  closed  it  to  keep  out  the 
draught.  Then  we  paid  a  domiciliary  visit,  and  were 
duly  shown  Parker's  apartments. 

In  outward  appearance  the  caravan  suggested  an 
overgrown  bathing-machine.  The  interior  resembled 
the  cabin  of  a  yacht.  The  walls  were  gayly  decorated 
with  painting  on  the  panels ;  flowers  bloomed  in  vases 
fixed  upon  the  wall,  two  prettily  curtained  windows — 
one  a  bay,  the  other  flat — gave  a  view  of  the  sur- 
rounding country.  At  the  forward  end,  against  the 
bulkhead,  so  to  speak,  was  a  small  but  enterprising 
chest  of  drawers,  and  above  it  a  large  looking-glass 
which  folded  down,  developed  legs,  and  owned  to  the 

260 


IN   A    CAEAVAISr 

soft  impeachment  of  being  a  bed.  Beneath  the  star- 
board window  a  low  and  capacious  sofa,  combining 
the  capacity  of  a  locker.  Under  the  port  window  was 
fixed  a  table  against  the  bulkhead,  where  four  people 
could  and  did  dine  sumptuously,  ^^^len  en  voyage 
and  between  meals,  charts,  maps,  and  literature  lit- 
tered this  table  pleasantly.  A  ship's  clock  hung  over 
it,  and  a  corner  cupboard  did  its  duty  in  the  port 
quarter.  A  heavy  plush  curtain  closed  off  the  kitchen 
and  pantry,  which  were  roomy  and  of  marvellous 
capacity.  Then  the  back  door — in  halves — and  the 
back  step,  brass-bound,  treacherous. 

In  front  there  was  a  little  veranda  with  support- 
ing columns  of  bamboo.  Here  we  usually  sat  when 
travelling — Parker  in  the  right-hand  comer  handling 
the  ribbons  of  the  tandem  cart-horses  with  skill  and 
discretion. 

As  dinner  was  not  ready  we  proceeded  to  pitch  the 
small  tent  wherein  the  two  men  were  to  sleep.  It  was 
a  singular  tent,  with  a  vast  number  of  pendent  ropes 
which  became  entangled  at  the  outset.  We  began  with 
zeal,  but  presently  left  the  ropes  and  turned  our  at- 
tention to  the  pegs.  These  required  driving  in  with 
a  wooden  mallet  and  a  correct  eye.  Persons  unaccus- 
tomed to  such  work  strike  the  peg  on  one  side — the 
mallet  goes  off  at  a  tangent  and  strikes  the  striker 
with  force  upon  the  shin-bone. 

Finally  Parker  said  he  would  put  up  the  tent 
''by'n-by." 

261 


IN   A    CARAVAN 

There  was  a  Bedlington  terrier — Parker's  dog — 
attached  (literally)  to  the  caravan.  He  was  tied  to 
one  of  the  bamboo  columns  on  the  forecastle,  and 
when  Parker  absented  himself  for  long  he  usually 
leaped  off  the  platform  and  sought  death  by  strangu- 
lation— this  we  discovered  later.  When  we  abandoned 
the  tent  we  thought  we  would  cheer  up  the  dog, 

"Don't  touch  him,  sir ;  he'll  bite  you,"  said  Parker. 

Of  course  we  touched  him;  no  man  who  respects 
himself  at  all  is  ready  to  admit  that  a  dog  bites 
him.  It  was  wonderful  how  that  dog  and  Parker 
understood  each  other.     But  the  bite  was  not  serious. 

At  last  dinner  was  ready,  and  we  are  prepared  to 
take  any  horrid  oath  required  that  no  professional 
cook  could  set  before  a  king  potatoes  more  mealy. 
This  only,  of  all  the  items  in  the  menu,  is  mentioned, 
because  where  potatoes  are  good  the  experienced  know 
that  other  things  will  never  be  amiss. 

We  waited  on  ourselves,  and  placed  the  dirty  dishes, 
plates,  and  forks  upon  the  back  step,  where  Parker 
replaced  them  in  a  few  minutes,  clean. 

"Oh !"  exclaimed  the  hostess-in-herself,  about  10 
p.m.,  when  we  were  smoking  the  beatific  pipe,  "by 
the  way — Parker's  dinner !" 

In  response  to  united  shouts  Parker  appeared,  and 
learned  with  apparent  surprise  that  he  had  omitted 
to  dine.  He  looked  pale  and  worn,  and  told  us  that 
he  had  been  blowing  out  the  air-beds.     At  eleven 

262 


IN    A    CAKAVAE" 

o'clock  we  two  men  left  the  ladies  and  went  out  into 
the  cold  moonlight,  where  our  tent  looked  remarkably 
picturesque.  Of  course  we  fell  over  a  tent-peg  each, 
and  the  host  lost  his  watchkey.  Parker  came  forward 
— dining — to  explain  where  the  ropes  were,  and  fell 
over  one  himself,  losing  a  piece  of  cold  boiled  beef  in 
the  grass.  We  hunted  for  it  with  a  lucifer  match.  Its 
value  was  enhanced  by  the  knowledge  that  when  the 
bed  was  shut  down  and  had  developed  its  legs  the 
larder  was  inaccessible.  After  some  time  Parker  dis- 
covered that  the  dog  had  been  let  loose  and  had  found 
the  beef  some  moments  before.  He  explained  that  it 
was  a  singular  dog  and  preferred  to  live  by  dishonesty. 
Unstolen  victuals  had  for  him  no  zest.  He  added  that 
the  loss  was  of  no  consequence,  as  he  never  had  been 
very  keen  on  that  piece  of  beef.  We  finally  retired  into 
the  tent,  and  left  Parker  still  at  work  completing 
several  contracts  he  had  undertaken  to  carry  through 
"by'n-by."  He  said  he  preferred  doing  them  over- 
night, as  it  was  no  good  getting  up  before  five  on  these 
dark  autumnal  mornings. 

As  an  interior  the  tent  was  a  decided  success.  We 
went  inside  and  hooked  the  flap  laboriously  from  top 
to  bottom.  Then  we  remembered  that  the  host's 
pajamas  were  outside.  He  undid  two  hooks  only  and 
attempted  to  effect  a  sortie  through  the  resultant  in- 
terstice. He  stuck.  The  position  was  undignified, 
and  conducive  to  weak  and  futile  laughter.     At  last 

263 


m   A    CARAVAK 

Parker  had  to  leave  the  washing-up  of  the  saucepans  to 
come  to  the  rescue,  while  the  dog  barked  and  imagined 
that  he  was  attending  a  burglary. 

It  was  nearly  midnight  before  we  made  our  first 
acquaintance  with  an  air-bed,  and  it  took  us  until 
seven  o'clock  the  next  morning  to  get  on  to  speaking 
terms  with  it.  The  air-bed,  like  the  Bedlington  ter- 
rier, must  be  approached  with  caution.  Its  manner 
is,  to  say  the  least  of  it,  repellent.  Unless  the  sleeper 
(save  the  mark!)  lies  geometrically  in  the  centre,  the 
air  rushes  to  one  side,  and  the  ignorant  roll  off  the 
other.  If  there  were  no  bedclothes  one  could  turn 
round  easily,  but  the  least  movement  throws  the  un- 
tucked blanket  incontinently  into  space,  while  the  in- 
stability of  the  bed  precludes  tucking  in.  Except  for 
these  and  a  few  other  drawbacks,  the  air-bed  may 
safely  be  recommended. 

The  next  morning  showed  a  white  frost  on  the 
grass,  and  washing  in  the  open,  in  water  that  had 
stood  all  night  in  a  bucket,  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
invigorating.  Parker  browned  our  boots,  put  a  spe- 
cial edge  of  his  own  upon  our  razors,  attended  to  the 
horses,  oiled  the  wheels,  fetched  the  milk,  filled  the 
lamps  of  the  paraffin  stove,  bought  a  gallon  of  oil, 
and  carried  a  can  of  water  from  a  neighboring  farm 
before  breakfast,  just  by  way — he  explained — of  get- 
ting ready  to  start  his  day's  work. 

An  early  start  had  been  projected,  but  owing  to  the 

264 


IK   A    CARAVAN" 

fact  that  after  breakfast  Parker  liad  to  beat  tlie  carpet, 
wash  the  dishes,  plates,  cups  and  saucers,  knives  and 
forks,  and  his  own  face,  strike  the  tent,  let  the  air  out 
of  the  air-beds,  roll  up  the  waterproof  sheets,  clean 
the  saucepans,  groom  the  horses,  ship  the  shafts,  send 
off  a  parcel  from  the  station,  buy  two  loaves  of  bread, 
and  thank  the  owner  of  the  stackyard — owing,  I  say, 
to  the  fact  that  Parker  had  these  things  to  accomplish 
while  we  "did  the  rest,"  it  was  eleven  o'clock  before 
all  hands  were  summoned  to  get  "her"  out  of  the  nar- 
row gateway.  This  was  safely  accomplished  by 
Parker,  while  we  walked  round,  looked  knowingly  at 
the  wheels,  sternly  at  the  gate-posts,  and  covertly  at 
the  spectators. 

Then  we  clambered  up,  the  host-in-himself  cracked 
the  whip,  Parker  gathered  up  his  reins. 

"Come  up.  Squire  !     Come  up,  Kancy !" 

And  the  joy  of  the  caravaneer  was  ours. 

This  joy  is  not  like  the  joy  of  other  men.  For  the 
high-road,  the  hedgerows,  the  birds,  the  changing  sky, 
the  ever-varying  landscape,  belong  to  the  caravaneer. 
He  sits  in  his  moving  home  and  is  saturated  with  the 
freedom  of  the  gipsy  without  the  haunting  memory  of 
the  police,  which  sits  like  Care  on  the  roof  of  the  gipsy 
van.  Book  on  lap,  he  luxuriates  on  the  forecastle 
when  the  sun  shines  and  the  breeze  blows  soft,  noting 
idly  the  passing  beauty  of  the  scene,  returning  peace- 
ably to  the  printed  page.     When  rain  comes,  as  it 

265 


m   A    CARAVAK 

sometimes  does  in  an  English  summer,  lie  goes  inside 
and  gives  a  deeper  attention  to  the  book,  while  Parker 
drives  and  gets  wet.  Getting  wet  is  one  of  Parker's 
duties.  And  through  rain  and  sunshine  he  moves  on 
ever,  through  the  peaceful  and  never  dull — the  incom- 
parable beauty  of  an  English  pastoral  land.  The 
journey  is  accomplished  without  fatigue,  without 
anxiety ;  for  the  end  of  it  can  only  be  the  quiet  comer 
of  a  moor,  or  some  sleepy  meadow.  Speed  is  of  no 
account — distance  immaterial.  The  caravaneer  looks 
down  with  indifference  upon  the  dense  curiosity  of 
the  smaller  towns ;  the  larger  cities  he  wisely  avoids. 

The  writer  occupied  the  humble  post  of  brakesman 
— elected  thereto  in  all  humility  by  an  overpowering 
majority.  The  duties  are  heavy,  the  glory  small.  A 
clumsy  vehicle  like  a  caravan  can  hardly  venture  down 
the  slightest  incline  without  a  skid  under  the  wheel 
and  a  chain  round  the  spoke.  This  necessitates  the 
frequent  handling  of  a  heavy  piece  of  iron,  which  is 
black  and  greasy  at  the  top  of  the  hill,  and  red-hot  at 
the  bottom. 

A  steep  hill  through  the  town  dispelled  the  Lord 
George  Sanger  illusion  at  one  fell  blow,  the  rustic- 
urban  mind  being  incapable  of  conceiving  that  that 
self -named  nobleman  could  demean  himself  to  the  lay- 
ing of  the  skid. 

Of  the  days  that  followed  there  remains  the  mem- 
ory of  pleasant  sunny  days  and  cool  evenings,  of  the 

266 


IN    A    CARAVAN 

partridge  plucked  and  cleaned  by  the  roadside,  fried 
deliciously  over  the  paraffin  flame,  amidst  fresh  but- 
ter and  mushrooms  with  the  dew  still  on  them.  We 
look  back  with  pleasure  to  the  quiet  camp  in  a  gravel- 
pit  on  a  hill-top  far  from  the  haunts  of  men — to  the 
pitching  of  the  tent  by  moonlight  in  a  meadow  where 
the  mushrooms  gleamed  like  snow,  to  be  duly  gathered 
for  the  frying-pan  next  morning  by  the  host-in-him- 
self,  and  in  pajamas.  Nor  are  the  sterner  sides  of 
caravan  life  to  be  forgotten — the  calamity  at  the  brow 
of  a  steep  hill,  where  a  nasty  turn  made  the  steady  old 
wheeler  for  once  lose  his  head  and  his  legs ;  the  hard- 
fought  battle  over  a  half-side  of  bacon  between  the 
Bedlington  terrier  and  the  writer  when  that  mistaken 
dog  showed  a  marked  preference  for  the  stolen  Wilt- 
shire over  the  partridge  bone  of  charity. 

And  there  are  pleasant  recollections  of  friends 
made,  and,  alas !  lost  so  soon ;  of  the  merry  evening  in 
a  country  house,  of  which  the  hospitable  host,  in  his 
capacity  of  justice  of  the  peace,  gave  us  short  shrift 
in  the  choice  between  the  county  jail  and  his  hospi- 
tality. Unless  we  consented  to  sleep  beneath  his  roof 
and  eat  his  salt,  he  vowed  he  would  commit  us  for 
vagabonds  without  visible  means  of  support.  We 
chose  the  humiliation  of  a  good  dinner  and  a  sheeted 
bed.  The  same  open-handed  squire  hung  partridges 
in  our  larder,  and  came  with  us  on  the  forecastle  to 
pilot  us  through  his  own  intricate  parish  next  day. 

2G7 


m    A    CAEAVAN 

Also  came  the  last  camp  and  the  last  dinner,  at 
which  the  writer  distinguished  himself,  and  the  host- 
in-himself  was  at  last  allowed  to  manipulate  (with 
accompanying  lecture)  a  marvellous  bivouac-tin  con- 
taining a  compound  called  beef  a  la  mode,  which  came 
provided  with  its  own  spirits  of  wine  and  wick,  both 
of  which  proved  ineffectual  to  raise  the  temperature 
of  the  beef  above  a  mediocre  tepidity.  Parker,  having 
heard  that  the  remains  of  this  toothsome  dish  were 
intended  for  his  breakfast,  wisely  hid  it  with  such 
care  that  the  dog  stole  it  and  consumed  it,  with  results 
which  cannot  be  dwelt  upon  here. 

Of  the  vicissitudes  of  road  travel  we  recollect  but 
little.  The  incipient  sea-sickness  endured  during  the 
first  day  has  now  lost  its  sting ;  the  little  differences 
about  the  relative  virtues  of  devilled  partridge  and 
beef  d  la  mode  are  forgotten,  and  only  the  complete 
novelty,  the  heedless  happiness  of  it  all,  remains.  We 
did  not  even  know  the  day  of  the  week  or  the  date ; 
which  ignorance,  my  masters,  has  a  wealth  of  mean- 
ing nowadays. 

"Date — oh,  ask  Parker !"  we  would  say. 

And  Parker  always  knew. 


268 


IN   THE  TRACK   OF   THE   WAN- 
DERING JEW 


XVI 

IN  THE  TRACK  OF  THE  WANDERING  JEW 

What  hope  is  ours — what  hope  ?    To  find  no  mercy 
After  much  war,  and  many  travails  done  ? 

"Well,  somebody  must  go ;  that  is  certain." 

And  more  than  one  man  looked  at  me.  It  was  not 
because  I  could  possibly  be  that  somebody,  although 
I  was  young  enough  and  of  little  enough  consequence. 
But  Fortune  had  been  busy  with  me.  She  had 
knocked  all  the  interest  out  of  my  life,  and  then  she 
had  proceeded  to  shower  her  fickle  favors  upon  me.  I 
was  by  way  of  becoming  a  success  in  that  line  of  life 
wherein  I  had  been  cast.  I  had  been  mentioned  in 
despatches,  and  somehow  the  bullets  had  passed  by  on 
the  other  side.  Her  gracious  Majesty  had  written  to 
me  twice  as  her  dearly  beloved  Thomas,  and  I  was 
well  up  in  my  profession. 

In  those  days  things  were  differently  done  in  India. 

There  was  less  telegraphing  here  and  there  for 
instructions.  There  was  more  action  and  less  talk. 
The  native  gentlemen  did  not  sit  on  a  jury  then. 

271 


THE    WANDERIIs^G    JEW 

"Yes,"  said  young  Martello,  "somebody  must  go. 
Question  is — who  ?" 

And  they  looked  at  me  again. 

"There  be  those  in  high  places,"  I  said,  "who  shall 
decide." 

They  laughed  and  made  no  answer.  They  were 
pleased  to  think  that  I  should  have  to  decide  which 
doctor  should  go  to  Capoo,  where  a  sickness  unlcnown 
and  incomprehensible  had  broken  out.  It  was  true 
that  I  was  senior  surgeon  of  the  division;  indeed, 
I  was  surgeon-major  of  a  tract  of  country  as  big  as 
Scotland.  It  is  India  now,  but  in  the  days  of  which 
I  write  the  question  had  not  been  settled  with  a  turbu- 
lent native  prince.  We  were,  in  fact,  settling  that 
question. 

Capoo  was  right  in  the  heart  of  the  new  country, 
while  we  were  in  occupation  of  a  border  town.  Be- 
hind us  lay  India ;  in  front,  the  Unknown.  The  gar- 
rison of  Capoo  was  small  and  self-important,  but 
sickness  made  itself  conspicuous  among  its  members. 
Their  doctor — poor  young  Barber — died,  and  the 
self-importance  of  the  Capoo  garrison  oozed  out  of 
their  finger-ends.  They  sent  down  post-haste  to  us 
for  help,  and  a  special  letter  addressed  to  me  detailed 
symptoms  of  no  human  malady. 

I  had  two  men  under  me.  The  question  seemed 
simple  enough.  One  of  them  would  have  to  go.  As 
to  which  one  there  was  really  no  doubt  whatever. 

272 


THE    WANDEKING   JEW 

The  duty  fell  upon  Tlmrkow.  Thurkow  was  junior. 
This  might  prove  to  be  Thurkow's  opportunity,  or — 
the  other  thing. 

We  all  knew  that  he  would  be  willing  enough  to 
go;  nay,  he  would  be  eager.  But  Thurkow's  father 
was  in  command,  which  made  all  the  difference. 

While  we  were  thinking  over  these  things  an  orderly 
appeared  at  the  mess-room  door. 

"Brigadier  would  like  to  see  you,  sir,"  he  said  to 
me.  And  I  had  to  throw  away  the  better  half  of  a 
first-class  manilla. 

The  brigadier's  quarters  were  across  a  square  in  the 
centre  of  a  long  rambling  palace,  for  which  a  hand- 
some rent  was  duly  paid.  We  were  not  making  war. 
On  the  contrary,  we  were  forcing  peace  down  the 
throat  of  the  native  prince  on  the  point  of  a 
sword. 

Everything  was  upon  a  friendly  footing.  We  were 
not  an  invading  force.  Oh,  no !  we  were  only  the 
escort  of  a  political  officer.  We  had  been  quartered 
in  this  border  town  for  more  than  a  year,  and  the 
senior  officers'  lady-wives  had  brought  their  lares  and 
penates  in  three  bullock-carts  apiece. 

I  suppose  we  were  objects  of  envy.  We  had  all  the 
excitement  of  novelty  without  any  of  the  penalties  of 
active  warfare.  We  were  strong  enough  to  make  an 
awful  example  of  the  whole  Principality  at  a  day's 
notice,  and  the  Principality  knew  it,  which  kept  bazaar 

273 


THE    WANDERING   JEW 

prices  down  and  made  the  colored  brother  remember 
the  hue  of  his  cheek. 

In  the  palace  there  were  half  a  dozen  officers' 
quarters,  and  these  had  been  apportioned  to  the  mar- 
ried ;  consequently  the  palace  had  that  air  of  homeli- 
ness which  is  supposed  to  be  lacking  in  the  quarters 
of  single  men. 

As  I  was  crossing  the  square  I  heard  some  one 
running  after  me,  and,  turning,  I  faced  Eitz.  Eitz 
Marner — usually  called  Eitz — was  my  second  in  com- 
mand and  two  years  my  junior.  He  was  quite  a 
different  sort  of  man  to  myself,  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  a 
much  better  man.  However,  I  am  not  going  to  talk 
about  myself  more  than  I  can  help  this  time.  Some 
day  I  shall,  and  then  I  shall  have  a  portrait  on  the 
cover.  This  is  an  age  of  portraits.  But  some  day 
the  British  public  will  wake  up  and  will  refuse  to 
read  the  works  of  a  smug-faced  man  in  spectacles  who 
tries  to  make  them  believe  that  he  is  doughty,  fear- 
less, and  beloved  of  beautiful  damsels.  The  book- 
stalls are  full  to-day  of  works  written  in  the  first  per- 
son singular,  and  relating  deeds  of  the  utmost  daring ; 
while  on  the  cover  is  a  portrait  of  the  author — the 
aforesaid  smug  man  in  spectacles — ^who  has  not  the 
good  sense  to  suppress  himself. 

Eitz  was  tall  and  lithe.  He  had  a  large  brown 
mustache  and  pleasantly  thoughtful  eyes.  His  smile 
was  the  kindliest  I  have  ever  met.     Moreover,   a 

274 


THE    WANDEKING    JEW 

modester  man  than  Fitz  never  breathed.  He  had 
a  way  of  carrying  his  chin  rather  low,  so  that  when 
he  looked  at  one  he  had  to  raise  his  eyes,  which  im- 
parted a  pleasing  suggestion  of  attention  to  his  face. 
It  always  seemed  to  me  that  Fitz  listened  more  care- 
fully to  what  was  said  to  him  than  other  men  are  in 
the  habit  of  doing. 

"Say,  doctor,"  he  said,  looking  up  at  me  in  his 
peculiar  thoughtful  way,  "give  me  a  chance." 

I  knew  what  he  meant.  He  wanted  me  to  send 
him  to  a  certain  death  instead  of  young  Thurkow. 
Those  little  missions  to  that  bourn  from  whence  no 
traveller  returns  are  all  the  work  of  a  soldier's  life, 
and  we  two  were  soldiers,  although  ours  was  the  task 
of  repairing  instead  of  doing  the  damage.  Every 
soldier-man  and  most  civilians  know  that  it  is  some- 
times the  duty  of  a  red-coat  to  go  and  get  killed 
without  pausing  to  ask  whether  it  be  expedient  or  not. 
One  aide-de-camp  may  be  sent  on  a  mad  attempt  to 
get  through  the  enemy's  lines,  while  his  colleague  rides 
quietly  to  the  rear  with  a  despatch  inside  his  tunic, 
the  delivery  of  which  to  the  commander-in-chief  will 
insure  promotion.  And  in  view  of  this  the  wholesome 
law  of  seniority  was  invented.  The  missions  come 
in  rotation,  and  according  to  seniority  the  men  step 
forward. 

Fitz  Marner's  place  was  at  my  side,  where,  by  the 
way,  I  never  want  a  better  man,  for  his  will  was  iron, 

275 


THE    WANDEKING   JEW 

and  he  had  no  nerves  whatever.  Capoo,  the  stricken, 
was  calling  for  help.  Fitz  and  I  knew  more  about 
cholera  than  we  cared  to  discuss  just  then.  Some  one 
must  go  up  to  Capoo  to  fight  a  hopeless  fight 
and  die.  And  old  Fitz — God  bless  him! — was  ask- 
ing to  go. 

In  reply  I  laughed. 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it.  The  fortune  of  war  is  the 
same  for  all," 

Eitz  tugged  at  his  mustache  and  looked  gravely 
at  me. 

"It  is  hard  on  the  old  man,"  he  said.  "It  is  more 
than  you  can  expect." 

"Much,"  I  answered.  "I  gave  up  expecting  justice 
some  years  ago.  I  am  sorry  for  the  brigadier,  of 
course.  He  committed  the  terrible  mistake  of  getting 
his  son  into  his  own  brigade,  and  this  is  the  result. 
All  tliat  he  does  to-night  he  does  on  his  own  responsi- 
bility. I  am  not  inclined  to  help  him.  If  it  had  been 
you,  I  should  not  have  moved  an  inch — ^you  know 
that." 

He  turned  half  way,  looking  up  speculatively  at 
the  yellow  Indian  moon. 

"Yes,"  he  muttered,  "I  know  that." 

And  without  another  word  he  went  back  to  the 
mess-room. 

I  went  on  and  entered  the  palace.  To  reach  the 
brigadier's  quarters  I  had  to  pass  down  the  whole 

276 


THE    WANDEKII^G   JEW 

length  of  the  building,  and  I  was  not  in  the  least  sur- 
prised to  see  Elsie  Matheson  waiting  for  me  in  one 
of  the  passage-like  ante-rooms.  Elsie  Matheson  was 
bound  to  come  into  this  matter  sooner  or  later — I  knew 
that ;  but  I  did  not  quite  know  in  what  capacity  her 
advent  might  be  expected. 

"What  is  this  news  from  Capoo  ?"  she  asked,  with- 
out attempting  to  disguise  her  anxiety.  Her  father, 
assistant  political  officer  in  this  affair,  was  not  at 
Capoo  or  near  there.  He  was  upstairs  playing  a 
rubber. 

"Bad,"  I  answered. 

She  winced,  but  turned  no  paler.  Women  and 
horses  are  always  surprising  me,  and  they  never 
surprise  me  more  than  when  in  danger.  Elsie  Mathe- 
son was  by  no  means  a  masculine  young  person.  Had 
she  been  so,  I  should  not  have  troubled  to  mention 
her.  For  me,  men  cannot  be  too  manly,  nor  women 
too  womanly. 

"What  is  the  illness  they  have  ?"  she  asked. 

"I  really  cannot  tell  you,  Elsie,"  I  answered.  "Old 
Simpson  has  written  me  a  long  letter — he  always  had 
a  fancy  for  symptoms,  you  know — but  I  can  make 
nothing  of  it.  The  symptoms  he  describes  are  quite 
impossible.     They  are  too  scientific  for  me." 

"You  know  it  is  cholera,"  she  snapped  out  with  a 
strange  little  break  in  her  voice  which  I  did  not  like, 
for  I  was  very  fond  of  this  girl. 

277 


THE    WANDERING    JEW 

''Perhaps  it  is,"  I  answered. 

She  gave  a  funny  little  helpless  look  round  her 
as  if  she  wanted  something  to  lean  against. 

"And  who  will  go  ?"  she  asked.  She  was  watching 
me  keenly. 

"Ah — that  does  not  rest  with  me." 

"And  if  it  did  ?" 

"I  should  go  myself." 

Her  face  lighted  up  suddenly.  She  had  not  thought 
of  that.  I  bore  her  no  ill-feeling,  however.  I  did  not 
expect  her  to  love  me. 

"But  they  cannot  spare  you,"  she  was  kind  enough 
to  say. 

"Everybody  can  always  be  spared — with  alacrity," 
I  answered ;  "but  it  is  not  a  question  of  that.  It  is  a 
question  of  routine.  One  of  the  others  will  have 
to  go." 

"Which  one  ?"  she  asked  with  a  suddenly  assumed 
indifference. 

It  was  precisely  the  question  in  my  own  mind,  but 
relative  to  a  very  different  matter.  If  the  decision 
rested  with  Miss  Matheson,  which  of  these  two  men 
would  she  send  to  Capoo  ?  Perhaps  I  looked  rather 
too  keenly  into  her  face,  for  she  turned  suddenly  away 
and  drew  the  gauzy  wrap  she  had  thrown  over  her 
evening  dress  more  closely  round  her  throat,  for  the 
passages  were  cold. 

"That  does  not  rest  with  me,"  I  repeated,  and  I 

278 


THE    WA^^DERIXG    JEW 

went  on  towards  the  brigadier's  quarters,  leaving  her 
— a  white  shadow  in  the  dimly  lighted  passage. 

I  found  the  chief  at  his  own  dinner-table  with  an 
untouched  glass  of  wine  before  him. 

"This  is  a  bad  business,"  he  said,  looking  at  me 
with  haggard  eyes.  I  had  never  quite  realized  before 
what  an  old  man  he  was.  His  trim  beard  and  mus- 
tache had  been  white  for  years,  but  he  had  always 
been  a  hale  man  up  to  his  work — a  fine  soldier  but  not 
a  great  leader.  There  was  a  vein  of  indolence  in 
Brigadier-General  Thurkow's  nature  which  had  the 
same  effect  on  his  career  as  that  caused  by  barnacles 
round  a  ship's  keel.  This  inherent  indolence  was  a 
steady  drag  on  the  man's  life.  Only  one  interest 
thoroughly  aroused  him — only  one  train  of  thought 
received  the  full  gift  of  his  mind.  This  one  absorbing 
interest  was  his  son  Charlie,  and  it  says  much  for 
Charlie  Thurkow  that  we  did  not  hate  him. 

The  brigadier  had  lost  his  wife  years  before.  All 
that  belonged  to  ancient  history — ^to  the  old  Company 
days  before  our  time.  To  say  that  he  was  absorbed  in 
his  son  is  to  state  the  case  in  the  mildest  imaginable 
form.  The  love  in  this  old  man's  heart  for  his  reck- 
less, happy-souled  offspring  was  of  that  higher  order 
which  stops  at  nothing.  There  is  a  love  that  worketh 
wonders,  and  the  same  love  can  make  a  villain  of  an 
honest  man. 

I  looked  at  old  Thurkow,  sitting  white-lipped  be- 

279 


THE    WANDERING   JEW 

hind  the  decanter,  and  I  knew  that  there  was  villainy 
in  his  upright,  honest  heart.  He  scarcely  met  my 
eyes.  He  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair.  All  through 
a  long  life  this  man  had  carried  nobly  the  noblest 
name  that  can  be  given  to  any — the  name  of 
gentleman.  ISTo  great  soldier,  but  a  man  of  dauntless 
courage.  ISTo  strategist,  but  a  leader  who  could  be 
trusted  with  his  country's  honor.  Upright,  honor- 
able, honest,  brave — and  it  had  come  to  this.  It  had 
come  to  his  sitting  shamefaced  before  a  poor  unknown 
sawbones — not  daring  to  look  him  in  the  face. 

His  duty  was  plain  enough.  Charlie  Thurkow's 
turn  had  come.  Charlie  Thurkow  must  be  sent  to 
Capoo — by  his  father's  orders.  But  the  old  man — 
the  soldier  who  had  never  turned  his  back  on  danger 
— could  not  do  it. 

We  were  old  friends,  this  man  and  I.  I  owed  him 
much.  He  had  made  my  career,  and  I  am  afraid 
I  had  been  his  accomplice  more  than  once.  But  we 
had  never  wronged  any  other  man.  Eitz  had  aided 
and  abetted  more  than  once.  It  had  been  an  under- 
stood thing  between  Eitz  and  myself  that  the  winds  of 
our  service  were  to  be  tempered  to  Charlie  Thurkow, 
and  I  imagine  we  had  succeeded  in  withholding  the 
fact  from  his  knowledge.  Like  most  spoilt  sons 
Charlie  was  a  little  selfish,  with  that  convenient  blind- 
ness which  does  not  perceive  how  much  dirty  work 
is  done  by  others. 

280 


THE    WANDERING   JEW 

But  we  had  never  deceived  the  brigadier.  He  was 
not  easily  deceived  in  those  matters  which  concerned 
his  son.  I  knew  the  old  man  very  well,  and  for  years 
I  had  been  content  to  sit  by  the  hour  together  and 
talk  with  him  of  Charlie.  To  tell  the  honest  truth, 
Master  Charlie  was  a  very  ordinary  young  man.  I 
take  it  that  a  solution  of  all  that  was  best  in  five 
Charles  Thurkows  would  make  up  one  Eitz  Marner. 

There  was  something  horribly  pathetic  in  the  blind- 
ness of  this  usually  keen  old  man  on  this  one  point. 
He  would  sit  there  stiffly  behind  the  decanter  finger- 
ing his  wine-glass  and  make  statements  about  Charlie 
which  would  have  made  me  blush  had  that  accom- 
plishment not  belonged  to  my  past.  A  certain  cheery 
impertinence  which  characterized  Charlie  was  fondly 
set  down  as  savoir  faire  and  dash.  A  cheap  wit  was 
held  to  be  brilliancy  and  conversational  finish.  And 
somehow  we  had  all  fallen  into  the  way  of  humoring 
the  brigadier.  I  never  told  him,  for  instance,  that 
his  son  was  a  very  second-rate  doctor  and  a  nervous 
operator.  I  never  hinted  that  many  of  the  cures 
which  had  been  placed  to  his  credit  were  the  work 
of  Fitz — that  the  men  had  no  confidence  in  Charlie, 
and  that  they  were  somewhat  justified  in  their 
opinion. 

"This  is  a  bad  business,"  repeated  the  brigadier, 
looking  hard  at  the  despatch  that  lay  on  the  table 
before  him. 

281 


THE    WANDEEING    JEW 

"Yes,"  I  answered. 

He  tossed  the  paper  towards  me  and  pointed  to  a 
chair. 

"Sit  down !"  he  said  sharply.  "Have  you  had  any 
report  from  poor  Barber  ?" 

In  response  I  handed  him  the  beginning  of  an 
official  report.  I  say  the  beginning  because  it  consisted 
of  four  lines  only.  It  was  in  Barber's  handwriting, 
and  it  broke  off  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  a  word  be- 
fore it  began  to  tell  me  anything.  In  its  way  it  was  a 
tragedy.  Death  had  called  for  Barber  while  he  was 
wondering  how  to  spell  "nauseous."  I  also  gave  him 
Colonel  Simpson's  letter,  which  he  read  carefully. 

"What  is  it  ?"  he  asked  suddenly,  as  he  laid  the 
papers  aside. 

"Officially— I  don't  know." 

"And  unofficially  ?" 

"I  am  afraid  it  is  cholera." 

The  brigadier  raised  his  glass  of  claret  a  few  inches 
from  the  table,  but  his  hand  was  too  unsteady,  and  he 
set  the  glass  down  again  untouched.  I  was  helplessly 
sorry  for  him.  There  was  something  abject  and 
humiliating  in  his  averted  gaze.  Beneath  his  white 
mustache  his  lips  were  twitching  nervously. 

For  a  few  moments  there  was  silence,  and  I 
dreaded  his  next  words.  I  was  trembling  for  his 
manhood. 

"I  suppose  something  must  be  done  for  them,"  he 

282 


THE    WANDERIXG    JEW 

said  at  length,  hoarsely,  and  it  was  hard  to  believe  that 
the  voice  was  the  voice  of  our  leader — a  man  dreaded 
in  warfare,  respected  in  peace. 

"Yes,"  I  answered  uncompromisingly. 

"Some  one  must  go  to  them " 

"Yes." 

Again  there  was  that  horrid  silence,  broken  only 
by  the  tramp  of  the  sentinel  outside  the  glassless 
windows. 

"Who  ?"  asked  the  brigadier,  in  little  more  than  a 
whisper. 

I  suppose  he  expected  it  of  me — I  suppose  he  knew 
that  even  for  him,  even  in  mercy  to  an  old  man  whose 
only  joy  in  life  trembled  at  that  moment  in  the  bal- 
ance, I  could  not  perpetrate  a  cruel  injustice. 

"It  devolves  on  Charlie,"  I  answered. 

He  gave  one  quick  glance  beneath  his  lashes,  and 
again  lowered  his  eyes.  I  heard  a  long  gasping  sound, 
as  if  he  found  difficulty  in  breathing.  He  sat  upright, 
and  threw  back  his  shoulders  with  a  pitiable  effort  to 
be  strong. 

"Is  he  up  to  the  work  ?"  he  asked  quietly. 

"I  cannot  conscientiously  say  that  he  is  not." 

"D n  it,  man,"  he  burst  out  suddenly,  "is  there 

no  way  out  of  it  ?" 

"Yes — one  way !" 

"What  is  it?" 

"I  will  go." 

283 


THE    WANDERING   JEW 

"That  is  impossible,"  he  answered  with  a  sublime 
unconsciousness  of  his  own  huge  selfishness  which 
almost  made  me  laugh.  This  man  would  have  asked 
nothing  for  himself.  For  his  son  he  had  no  shame  in 
asking  all.  He  would  have  accepted  my  offer,  I  could 
see  that,  had  it  been  possible. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  Charlie  Thur- 
kow  came  in.  His  eyes  were  bright  with  excitement, 
and  he  glanced  at  us  both  quickly.  He  was  quite 
well  aware  of  his  father's  weakness  in  regard  to  him- 
self, and  I  am  afraid  he  sometimes  took  advantage  of 
it.  He  often  ignored  discipline  entirely,  as  he  did  in 
coming  into  the  room  at  that  moment. 

I  suppose  there  is  in  every  one  a  sense  of  justice 
which  accounts  for  the  subtle  annoyance  caused  by 
the  devotion  of  parents  and  others — a  devotion  which 
has  not  the  good  sense  to  hide  itself.  There  are  few 
things  more  annoying  than  an  exhibition  of  unjust 
love.  I  rose  at  once.  The  coming  interview  would 
be  either  painful  or  humiliating,  and  I  preferred  not 
to  assist  at  it. 

As  I  went  down  the  dark  passages  a  man  in  a  staff 
uniform,  wearing  spurs,  clanked  past  me.  I  did  not 
know  until  later  that  it  was  Fitz,  for  I  could  not  see 
his  face. 

I  went  back  to  my  quarters,  and  was  busy  for  some 
time  with  certain  technicalities  of  my  trade  which 
are  not  worth  detailing  here.     While  I  and  my  two 

284 


THE    WANDERING    JEW 

dispensers  were  still  measuring  out  and  mixing  drugs 
Fitz  came  to  us. 

"I  am  going  to  Capoo,"  he  said  quietly. 

In  his  silent,  quick  way  he  was  taking  in  all  that 
we  were  doing.  We  were  packing  medical  stores  for 
Capoo.  I  did  not  answer  him,  but  waited  for  further 
details.  We  could  not  speak  openly  before  the  two 
assistants  at  that  moment,  and  somehow  we  never 
spoke  about  it  at  all.  I  glanced  up  at  him.  His  face 
was  pale  beneath  the  sunburn.  There  was  a  drawn 
look  just  above  his  mustache,  as  if  his  lips  were  held 
tightly. 

"I  volunteered,"  he  said,  "and  the  brigadier  ac- 
cepted my  offer." 

Whenever  the  word  "duty"  is  mentioned,  I  think 
of  Eitz  to  this  day. 

I  said  nothing,  but  went  on  with  my  work.  The 
whole  business  was  too  disgusting,  too  selfish,  too  un- 
just, to  bear  speaking  of. 

I  had  long  known  that  Eitz  loved  Elsie  Matheson. 
In  my  feeble  way,  according  to  my  scanty  oppor- 
tunity, I  had  endeavored  to  assist  him.  But  her  name 
had  never  been  mentioned  between  us  except  carelessly 
in  passing  conversation.  I  knew  no  details.  I  did 
not  even  know  whether  Elsie  knew  of  his  love ;  but  it 
was  exceedingly  likely  that  if  she  did,  he  had  not  told 
her.  As  to  her  feelings,  I  was  ignorant.  She  loved 
somebody,  that  much  I  knew.    One  can  generally  tell 

285 


THE    WANDERING   JEW 

that.  One  sees  it  in  a  woman's  eyes.  But  it  is  one 
thing  to  know  that  a  woman  loves,  and  quite  another 
to  find  out  whom  she  loves.  I  have  tried  in  vain  more 
than  once.  I  once  thought  that  I  was  the  favored 
person — not  with  Elsie,  with  quite  another  woman — 
but  I  was  mistaken.  I  only  know  that  those  women 
who  have  that  in  their  eyes  which  I  have  learnt  to 
recognize  are  better  women  than  those  who  lack  it. 

Fitz  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Don't  put  all  of  that  into  one  case,"  he  said  to  one 
of  the  dispensers,  indicating  a  row  of  bottles  that 
stood  on  the  floor.  "Divide  the  different  drugs  over 
the  cases,  so  that  one  or  two  of  them  can  be  lost  with- 
out doing  much  harm." 

His  voice  was  quite  calm  and  practical. 

"When  do  you  go  ?"  I  asked  curtly.  I  was  rather 
afraid  of  trusting  my  voice  too  long,  for  Fitz  was  one 
of  the  few  men  who  have  really  entered  into  my  life 
sufiiciently  to  leave  a  blank  space  behind  them.  I 
have  been  a  rolling  stone,  and  what  little  moss  I  ever 
gathered  soon  got  knocked  off,  but  it  left  scars.  Fitz 
left  a  scar. 

"My  orders  are  to  start  to-night — ^with  one 
trooper,"  he  answered. 

"What  time?" 

"In  half  an  hour." 

"I  will  ride  with  you  a  few  miles,"  I  said. 

He  turned  and  went  to  his  quarters,  which  were 

286 


THE    WANDERING    JEW 

next  to  mine.  I  was  still  at  work  when  Charlie  Thur- 
kow  came  in.  He  had  changed  his  dress  clothes  for 
an  old  working  suit.  I  was  working  in  my  evening 
dress — a  subtle  difference. 

"Do  you  want  any  help  ?"  he  asked.  I  could  hear 
a  grievance  in  his  voice. 

"Of  course;  get  on  packing  that  case;  plenty  of 
straw  between  the  bottles." 

He  obeyed  me,  working  slowly,  badly,  without  con- 
centration, as  he  always  did. 

"It's  a  beastly  shame,  isn't  it?"  he  muttered 
presently. 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "it  is." 

I  suppose  he  did  not  detect  the  sarcasm. 

"Makes  me  look  a  fool,"  he  said  heatedly.  "Why 
couldn't  the  governor  let  me  go  and  take  my 
chance  ?" 

The  answer  to  this  question  being  beyond  my  ken, 
I  kept  a  discreet  silence.  Giving  him  further  instruc- 
tions, I  presently  left  my  junior  to  complete  the 
task  of  packing  up  the  necessary  medicaments  for 
Capoo. 

In  less  than  half  an  hour  Eitz  and  I  mounted  our 
horses.  A  few  of  the  fellows  came  out  of  the  mess- 
room,  cigar  in  mouth,  to  say  good-by  to  Eitz.  One  or 
two  of  them  called  out  "Good  luck"  as  we  left  them. 
Each  wish  was  followed  by  a  little  laugh,  as  if  the 
wisher  was  ashamed  of  showing  even  so  minute  an 

287 


THE    WANDEKING   JEW 

emotion.  It  was,  after  all,  all  in  the  way  of  our  busi- 
ness. Many  a  time  Eitz  and  I  had  stood  idle  while 
these  same  men  rode  out  to  face  death.  It  was  Eitz's 
turn  now — that  was  all. 

The  Sikh  trooper  was  waiting  for  us  in  the  middle 
of  the  square — in  the  moonlight — a  grand  picturesque 
figure.  A  long-faced,  silent  man,  with  deep  eyes  and 
a  grizzled  mustache.  He  wheeled  his  horse,  and 
dropped  ten  paces  in  our  rear. 

In  the  course  of  a  varied  experience  Eitz  and  I 
had  learnt  to  ride  hard.  We  rode  hard  that  night 
beneath  the  yellow  moon,  through  the  sleeping,  odor- 
ous country.  We  both  knew  too  well  that  cholera  under 
canvas  is  like  a  fire  in  a  timber-yard.  You  may  pump 
your  drugs  upon  it,  but  without  avail  unless  the  pump- 
ing be  scientific.  Eitz  represented  science.  Every 
moment  meant  a  man's  life.  Our  horses  soon  settled 
into  their  stride  with  a  pleasant  creaking  sound  of 
warm  leather  and  willing  lungs. 

The  moon  was  above  and  behind  us ;  we  each  had 
a  galloping  shadow  beneath  our  horse's  forefeet.  It 
was  a  sandy  country,  and  the  hoofs  only  produced  a 
dull  thud.  There  was  something  exhilarating  in  the 
speed — in  the  shimmering  Indian  atmosphere.  A 
sense  of  envy  came  over  me,  and  I  dreaded  the  mo- 
ment when  I  should  have  to  turn  and  ride  soberly 
home,  leaving  Eitz  to  complete  his  forty-five  miles 
before  daylight. 

288 


THE    WANDERING   JEW 

We  were  riding  our  chargers.  They  had  naturally 
fallen  into  step,  and  bounded  beneath  us  with  a  regu- 
lar, mechanical  rhythm.  Both  alike  had  their  heads 
down,  their  shoulders  forward,  with  that  intelligent 
desire  to  do  well  which  draws  a  man's  heart  towards 
a  horse  in  preference  to  any  other  animal.  I  looked 
sideways  at  Fitz,  and  waited  for  him  to  speak.  But 
he  was  staring  straight  in  front  of  him,  and  seemed 
lost  in  thought. 

"You  know,"  I  said  at  length,  "you  have  done  that 
old  man  an  ill-turn.  Even  if  you  come  back  he  will 
never  forgive  himself.  He  will  never  look  either  of 
us  straight  in  the  face  again." 

"Can't  help  that,"  replied  Fitz.    "The  thing " 

He  paused,  as  if  choosing  his  words.  "If,"  he  went 
on  rather  quickly,  "the  worst  comes  to  worst,  don't 
let  people — any  one — think  that  I  did  it  because  I 
didn't  care,  because  I  set  no  value  on  my  life.  The 
thing  was  forced  upon  me.  I  was  asked  to  volunteer 
for  it." 

"All  right,"  I  answered,  rather  absent-mindedly 
perhaps.  I  was  wondering  who  "any  one"  might  be, 
and  also  who  had  asked  him  to  throw  away  his  life. 
The  latter  might,  of  course,  be  the  brigadier.  Surely 
it  could  not  have  been  Elsie.  But,  as  I  said  before, 
I  always  was  uncertain  about  women. 

I  did  not  say  anything  about  hoping  for  the  best. 
Fitz  and  I  had  left  all  that  nonsense  behind  us  years 

289 


THE    WANDERING    JEW 

before.  We  did  our  business  amidst  battle,  murder, 
and  sudden  death.  Perhaps  we  were  callous,  perhaps 
we  had  only  learnt  to  value  the  thing  at  its  true  worth, 
and  did  not  set  much  fear  on  death. 

And  then,  I  must  ask  you  to  believe,  we  fell  to 
talking  "shop."  I  knew  a  little  more  about  cholera 
than  did  Fitz,  and  we  got  quite  interested  in  our  con- 
versation. It  is,  I  have  found,  only  in  books  that  men 
use  the  last  moment  to  advantage.  Death  has  been 
my  road-fellow  all  through  life,  and  no  man  has  yet 
died  in  my  arms  saying  quite  the  right  thing.  Some 
of  them  made  a  joke,  others  were  merely  common- 
place, as  all  men  really  are  whether  living  or  dying. 

When  the  time  came  for  me  to  turn  back,  Fitz  had 
said  nothing  fit  for  post-mortem  reproduction.  We 
had  talked  unmitigated  "shop,"  except  the  few  odd 
observations  I  have  set  down. 

We  shook  hands,  and  I  turned  back  at  once.  As 
I  galloped  I  looked  back,  and  in  the  light  of  the  great 
tropical  moon  I  saw  Fitz  sitting  forward  in  his  saddle 
as  the  horse  rose  to  the  slope  of  a  hill,  galloping  away 
into  the  night,  into  the  unknown,  on  his  mission  of 
mercy.  At  his  heels  rode  the  Sikh,  enormous,  silent, 
soldierly. 

During  my  steady  run  home  I  thought  of  those 
things  concerning  my  craft  which  required  immediate 
consideration.  Would  it  be  necessary  to  send  down 
to  India  for  help?     Cholera  at  Capoo  might  mean 

290 


THE    WANDERING    JEW 

cholera  everywhere  in  this  new  nnknown  country. 
What  about  the  women  and  children  ?  The  Wander- 
ing Jew  was  abroad ;  would  he  wander  in  our  direc- 
tion, with  the  legendary  curse  following  on  his  heels  ? 
Was  I  destined  to  meet  this  dread  foe  a  third  time  ? 
I  admit  that  the  very  thought  caused  a  lump  to  rise 
in  my  throat.  For  I  love  Thomas  Atkins.  He  is 
manly  and  honest  according  to  his  lights.  It  does  not 
hurt  me  very  much  to  see  him  with  a  bullet  through 
his  lungs  or  a  sabre-cut  through  his  collar-bone  down 
to  the  same  part  of  his  anatomy.  But  it  does  hurt  me 
exceedingly  to  see  honest  Thomas  die  between  the 
sheets — the  death  of  any  common  civilian  beggar. 
Thomas  is  too  good  for  that. 

It  was  nearly  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  when 
I  rode  into  the  palace  square.  All  round  I  saw  the 
sentinels,  their  bayonets  gleaming  in  the  moonlight. 
A  man  was  walking  backwards  and  forwards  in  the 
middle  of  the  square  by  himself.  When  he  heard  me 
he  came  towards  me.  At  first  I  thought  that  it  was  my 
servant  waiting  to  take  the  horse,  but  a  moment  later 
I  recognized  Charlie  Thurkow — recognized  him  by 
his  fair  hair,  for  he  was  hatless.  At  the  same  time  my 
syce  roused  himself  from  slumber  in  the  shadow  of 
an  arch,  and  ran  forward  to  my  stirrup. 

"Come  to  the  hospital!"  said  Thurkow,  the  mo- 
ment I  alighted.  His  voice  was  dull  and  unnatural. 
I  once  heard  a  man  speak  in  the  same  voice  while 

291 


THE    WANDEKING    JEW 

collecting  his  men  for  a  rush  which  meant  certain 
death.  The  man  was  duly  killed,  and  I  think  he  was 
trembling  with  fear  when  he  ran  to  his  death. 

"What  is  it?"  I  asked. 
'      "I  don't  know." 

We  walked — almost  ran — ^to  the  hospital,  a  long 
low  building  in  the  palace  compound.  Charlie  Thur- 
kow  led  the  way  to  a  ward  which  we  had  never  used — 
a  ward  I  had  set  apart  for  infectious  cases.  A  man 
was  dozing  in  a  long  chair  in  the  open  window.  As 
we  entered  he  rose  hastily  and  brought  a  lamp.  We 
bent  over  a  bed — the  only  one  occupied.  The  occu- 
pant was  a  man  I  did  not  know.  He  looked  like  a 
Goorkha,  and  he  was  dying.  In  a  few  moments  I 
knew  all  that  there  was  to  know.  I  knew  that  the 
Wandering  Jew  had  passed  our  way. 

"Yes,"  I  said,  rising  from  my  knees  at  the  bedside ; 
*'we  have  it." 

Of  the  days  that  followed  it  is  not  my  intention  to 
say  much.  A  woman  once  told  me  that  I  was  afraid 
of  nothing.  She  was  mistaken.  If  she  chance  to  read 
this  and  recognize  it,  I  hope  she  will  believe  the  asser- 
tion :  I  am,  and  always  have  been,  afraid  of  cholera — 
in  India.  In  Europe  it  is  a  different  matter.  The 
writing  of  those  days  would  be  unpleasant  to  me; 
the  reading  would  be  still  less  pleasant  to  the 
reader. 

Brigadier-General  Thurkow  rose  to  the  occasion,  as 

292 


THE    WANDERING    JEW 

we  all  expected  him  to  do.  It  is  one  thing  to  send  a 
man  to  a  distant  danger,  and  quite  another  to  go  with 
him  into  a  danger  which  is  close  at  hand.  Charlie 
Thurkow  and  I  were  the  only  two  doctors  on  the  spot, 
and  before  help  could  reach  us  we  should  probably  all 
be  dead  or  cured.  There  was  no  shirking  now. 
Charlie  and  I  were  at  work  night  and  day ;  and  in  the 
course  of  thirty-six  hours  Charlie  got  interested  in  it. 
He  reached  the  fighting  point — that  crisis  in  an  epi- 
demic of  which  doctors  can  tell — that  point  where 
there  is  a  certain  glowing  sense  of  battle  over  each  bed 
— where  death  and  the  doctor  see  each  other  face  to 
face — fight  hand  to  hand  for  the  life. 

The  doctor  loses  his  interest  in  the  patient  as  a 
friend  or  a  patient ;  all  his  attention  is  centred  on  the 
life  as  a  life,  and  a  point  to  be  scored  against  the  ad- 
versary Death. 

We  had  a  very  bad  time  for  two  days.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  I  had  ofiicers  bearing  Her  Majesty's 
commission  serving  under  me  as  assistant  nurses,  and 
then  the  women  came  into  it.  The  first  to  offer  herself 
was  the  wife  of  a  non-commissioned  officer  in  the  En- 
gineers, who  had  been  through  Netley.  I  accepted 
her.  The  second  woman  was  Elsie  Matheson.  I  re- 
fused point  blank. 

"Sooner  or  later,"  she  said,  looking  at  me  steadily 
with  something  in  her  eyes  which  I  could  not  make 
out,  "you  will  have  to  take  me." 

293 


THE    WANDERING   JEW 

"Does  your  father  know  you  have  come  to  me  ?"  I 
retorted. 

"Yes ;  I  came  with  his  consent." 

I  shook  my  head  and  returned  to  my  writing.  I 
was  filling  in  a  list  of  terrific  length.  She  did  not  go 
away,  but  stood  in  front  of  me  with  a  certain  tran- 
quillity which  was  unnatural  under  the  circumstances. 

"Do  you  want  help?"  she  asked  calmly. 

"God  knows  I  do." 

"But  not  mine ?" 

"Not  yet,  Elsie.    I  have  not  got  so  far  as  that  yet" 

I  did  not  look  up,  and  she  stood  quite  still  over  me — 
looking  down  at  me — probably  noting  that  the  hair 
was  getting  a  little  thin  on  the  top  of  my  head.  This 
is  not  a  joke.  I  repeat  she  was  probably  noting 
that.    People  do  note  such  things  at  such  moments. 

"If  you  do  not  take  me,"  she  said,  in  a  singularly 
even  voice,  "I  shall  go  up  to  Capoo.  Can  you  not  see 
that  that  is  the  only  thing  that  can  save  me  from  going 
to  Capoo — or  going  mad  ?" 

I  laid  aside  my  pen  and  looked  up  into  her  face, 
which  she  made  no  pretence  of  hiding  from  me.  And 
I  saw  that  it  was  as  she  said. 

"You  can  go  to  work  at  once,"  I  said,  "under  Mrs. 
Martin,  in  ward  number  four." 

When  she  had  left  me  I  did  not  go  on  filling  in 
the  list  from  the  notes  in  my  pocket-book.  I  fell  to 
wasting  time  instead.     So  it  vxis  Fitz.     I  was  not 

294 


THE    WANDERING    JEW 

surprised,  but  I  was  very  pleased.  I  was  not  sur- 
prised, because  I  have  usually  found  that  the  better 
sort  of  woman  has  as  keen  a  scent  for  the  good  men 
as  we  have.  And  I  thought  of  old  Fitz — the  best  man 
I  ever  served  with — fighting  up  at  Capoo  all  alone, 
while  I  fought  down  in  the  valley.  There  was  a  cer- 
tain sense  of  companionship  in  the  thought,  though 
my  knowledge  and  experience  told  me  that  our  chances 
of  meeting  again  were  very  small  indeed. 

We  had  not  heard  from  Capoo.  The  conclusion 
was  obvious :  they  had  no  one  to  send. 

Elsie  Matheson  soon  became  a  splendid  nurse.  She 
was  quite  fearless — not  with  dash,  but  with  the  steady 
fearlessness  that  comes  from  an  ever-present  sense  of 
duty,  which  is  the  best.  She  was  kind  and  tender,  but 
she  was  a  little  absent.  In  spirit  she  was  nursing  at 
Capoo ;  with  us  she  was  only  in  the  body. 

When  Charlie  Thurkow  heard  that  she  had  gone 
into  ward  number  four,  he  displayed  a  sudden,  singu- 
lar anger. 

"It's  not  fit  for  her,"  he  said.  "How  could  you 
doit?" 

And  I  noticed  that,  so  far  as  lay  in  his  power,  he 
kept  the  worst  cases  away  from  number  four. 

It  occasionally  happens  in  life  that  duty  is  synony- 
mous with  inclination ;  not  often,  of  course,  but  occa- 
sionally. I  twisted  inclination  round  into  duty,  and 
put  Elsie  to  night  work,  while  Charles  Thurkow  kept 

295 


THE    WANDERING   JEW 

the  day  watches.  I  myself  was  forced  to  keep  both 
as  best  I  could. 

Whenever  I  went  into  number  four  ward  at  night 
before  (save  the  mark)  going  to  bed,  I  found  Elsie 
Matheson  waiting  for  me.  It  must  be  remembered 
that  she  was  quite  cut  off  from  the  little  world  that 
surrounded  us  in  the  palace.  She  had  no  means  of 
obtaining  news.  Her  only  link  with  the  outer  uni- 
verse was  an  occasional  patient  brought  in  more  dead 
than  alive,  and  too  much  occupied  with  his  own  affairs 
to  trouble  about  those  of  other  people. 

"Any  news  ?"  she  would  whisper  to  me  as  we  went 
round  the  beds  together;  and  I  knew  that  she  meant 
Capoo.  Capoo  was  all  the  world  for  her.  It  is  strange 
how  some  little  unknown  spot  on  the  earth  will  rise  up 
and  come  into  our  lives  never  to  leave  the  memory 
again. 

"Nothing,"  I  replied  with  a  melancholy  regularity. 

Once  only  she  broke  through  her  reserve — through 
the  habit  of  bearing  pain  in  silence  which  she  had 
acquired  by  being  so  much  among  dying  men. 

"Have  you  no  opinion  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  sharp- 
ness in  her  voice  which  I  forgave  as  I  heard  it. 

"Upon  what  subject?" 

"Upon  .  .  .  the  chances." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders. 

"He  is  a  good  man — there  is  no  better  in  India — 
that  is  all  I  can  say.     Just  hold  the  candle  a  little 

296 


THE    WANDERING   JEW 

closer,  will  you  please?  Thanks — ^yes — he  is  quite 
dead." 

We  passed  on  to  the  next  bed. 

"It  is  both  his  duty  and  his  inclination  to  take  care 
of  himself,"  I  said  as  we  went — going  back  with  her 
in  the  spirit  to  Capoo. 

"How  do  you  know  it  is  his  inclination  ?"  she  asked 
guardedly. 

And  I  knew  that  I  was  on  the  right  path.  The 
vague  message  given  to  "any  one"  by  Fitz  as  he  rode 
by  my  side  that  night — only  a  week  before,  although 
it  seemed  to  be  months — ^that  message  was  intended 
for  Elsie.  It  referred  to  something  that  had  gone 
before,  of  which  I  had  no  knowledge. 

"Because  he  told  me  so,"  I  answered. 

And  then  we  went  on  with  our  work.  Charlie 
Thurkow  was  quite  right.  I  knew  that  all  along.  It 
was  not  fit  for  her.  Elsie  was  too  young,  too  gentle 
and  delicate  for  such  a  place  as  ward  number  four.  I 
make  no  mention  of  her  beauty,  for  I  took  no  heed  of 
it  then.  It  was  there — ^but  it  had  nothing  to  do  with 
this  matter.  Also  I  have  never  seen  why  women  who 
are  blessed  or  cursed  by  beauty  should  be  more  con- 
sidered in  such  matters,  as  they  undoubtedly  are. 

I  was  up  and  about  all  that  night.  The  next  morn- 
ing rose  gloomily,  as  if  the  day  was  awakening  unre- 
f reshed  by  a  feverish  sleep.  The  heat  had  been  intense 
all  night,  and  we  could  look  for  nothing  but  an  in- 

297 


THE    WANDERING    JEW 

tensification  of  it  when  the  sun  rose  with  a  tropical 
aggressiveness.  I  wanted  to  get  my  reports  filled  in 
before  lying  down  to  snatch  a  little  rest,  and  was  still 
at  work  when  Charlie  Thurkow  came  in  to  relieve  me. 
He  looked  ghastly,  but  we  all  did  that,  and  I  took  no 
notice.  He  took  up  the  ward-sheets  and  glanced  down 
the  columns. 

"Wish  I  had  gone  to  Capoo,"  he  muttered.  "It 
couldn't  have  been  worse  than  this." 

I  had  finished  my  writing,  and  I  rose.  As  I  did 
so  Charlie  suddenly  clapped  his  hand  to  his  hip. 

"I  say !"  he  exclaimed,  "I  say !" 

He  looked  at  me  in  a  stupid  way,  and  then 
suddenly  he  tottered  towards  me,  and  I  caught 
him. 

"Old  chap!"  he  exclaimed  thickly,  with  his  face 
against  my  shoulder,  "I've  got  it.  Take  me  to  num- 
ber four." 

He  had  seen  by  the  list  that  there  was  a  vacant  cot 
in  number  four. 

I  carried  him  there,  stumbling  as  I  went,  for  I  was 
weak  from  want  of  sleep. 

Elsie  had  just  gone  to  her  room,  and  Mrs.  Martin 
was  getting  the  vacant  bed  ready.  I  was  by  that  bed- 
side all  day.  All  that  I  knew  I  did  for  Charlie  Thur- 
kow. I  dosed  myself  with  more  than  one  Indian  drug 
to  stimulate  the  brain — to  keep  myself  up  to  doing 
and  thinking.    This  was  a  white  man's  life,  and  God 

298 


THE  wa:ndering  jew 

forgive  me  if  I  set  undue  store  upon  it  as  compared 
with  the  black  lives  we  were  losing  daily.  This  was  a 
brain  that  could  think  for  the  rest.  There  was  more 
than  one  man's  life  wrapped  up  in  Charlie  Thurkow's. 
One  can  never  tell.  Mj  time  might  come  at  any  mo- 
ment, and  the  help  we  had  sent  for  could  not  reach 
us  for  another  fortnight. 

Charlie  said  nothing.  He  thanked  me  at  intervals 
for  some  little  service  rendered,  and  nearly  all  the 
time  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  clock.  He  was  reck- 
oning with  his  own  life.  He  did  not  want  to  die  in 
the  day,  but  in  the  night.  He  was  deliberately  spin- 
ning out  his  life  till  the  night  nurse  came  on  duty. 
I  suppose  that  in  his  superficial,  happy-go-lucky  way 
he  loved  her. 

I  pulled  him  through  that  day,  and  we  managed  to 
refrain  from  waking  Elsie  up.  At  nightfall  she  came 
to  her  post.  When  she  came  into  the  room  I  was 
writing  a  note  to  the  brigadier.  I  watched  her  face 
as  she  came  towards  us.  There  was  only  distress  upon 
it — nothing  else.  Even  women — even  beautiful  wom- 
en grow  callous;  thank  Heaven!  Charlie  Thurkow 
gave  a  long  sigh  of  relief  when  she  came. 

My  note  was  duly  sent  to  the  brigadier,  and  five 
minutes  afterwards  I  went  out  on  to  the  veranda  to 
speak  to  him.  I  managed  to  keep  him  out  of  the 
room  by  a  promise  that  he  should  be  sent  for  later.  I 
made  no  pretence  about  it,  and  he  knew  that  it  was 

299 


THE    WANDERING    JEW 

only  the  question  of  a  few  hours  when  he  walked  back 
across  the  palace  square  to  his  quarters.  I  came  back 
to  the  veranda,  and  found  Elsie  waiting  to  speak 
to  me. 

"Will  he  die?"  she  asked. 

"Yes." 

"Quite  sure  ?" 

There  was  a  strange  glitter  in  her  eyes  which  I 
could  not  understand. 

"Quite,"  I  answered,  forgetting  to  be  professional. 

She  looked  at  me  for  a  moment  as  if  she  were  about 
to  say  something,  and  then  she  apparently  decided  not 
to  say  it. 

I  went  towards  a  long  chair  which  stood  on  the 
veranda. 

"I  shall  lie  down  here,"  I  said,  "and  sleep  for  an 
hour." 

"Yes,  do,"  she  answered  almost  gratefully. 

"You  will  wake  me  if  you  want  me  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Wake  me  when  .  .  .  the  change  comes." 

"Yes." 

In  a  few  moments  I  was  asleep.  I  do  not  know 
what  woke  me  up.  It  seemed  to  be  very  late.  All  the 
sounds  of  barrack  life  were  hushed.  The  moon  was 
just  up.  I  rose  to  my  feet  and  turned  to  the  open 
window.     But  there  I  stopped. 

Elsie  was  kneeling  by  Charlie  Thurkow's  bed.    She 

300 


THE    WANDERING   JEW 

was  leaning  over  him,  and  I  could  see  that  she  was 
kissing  him.    And  I  knew  that  she  did  not  love 

him. 

I  kicked  against  the  chair  purposely.  Elsie  turned 
and  looked  towards  me,  with  her  hand  still  resting  on 
Charlie  Thurkow's  forehead.  She  beckoned  me  to  go 
to  them,  and  I  saw  at  once  that  he  was  much  weaker. 
She  was  stroking  his  hair  gently.  She  either  gave  me 
credit  for  great  discernment,  or  she  did  not  care  what 
I  thought. 

I  saw  that  the  time  had  come  for  me  to  fulfil  my 
promise  to  the  brigadier,  and  went  out  of  the  open 
window  to  send  one  of  the  sentinels  for  him.  As  I 
was  speaking  to  the  man  I  heard  the  clatter  of  a  horse's 
feet,  and  a  Sikh  rode  hard  into  the  palace  square.  I 
went  towards  him,  and  he,  recognizing  me,  handed  me 
a  note  which  he  extracted  from  the  folds  of  his  turban. 
I  opened  the  paper  and  read  it  by  the  light  of  the 
moon.  My  heart  gave  a  leap  in  my  throat.  It  was 
from  Fitz.    News  at  last  from  Capoo. 

"We  have  got  it  under,"  he  wrote.  "I  am  coming 
down  to  help  you.  Shall  be  with  you  almost  as  soon 
as  the  bearer." 

As  I  walked  back  towards  the  hospital  the  brigadier 
came  running  behind  me,  and  caught  me  up  as  I 
stepped  in  by  the  window.  I  had  neither  time  nor 
inclination  just  then  to  tell  him  that  I  had  news 
from  Capoo.    The  Sikh  no  doubt  brought  official  news 

301 


THE    WANDERING    JEW 

which  would  reach  their  destination  in  due  course. 
And  in  the  meantime  Charlie  Thurkow  was  dying. 

We  stood  round  that  bed  and  waited  silent,  emo- 
tionless for  the  angel.  Charlie  knew  only  too  well 
that  the  end  was  very  near.  From  time  to  time  he 
smiled  rather  wearily  at  one  or  the  other  of  us,  and 
once  over  his  face  there  came  that  strange  look  of  a 
higher  knowledge  which  I  have  often  noted,  as  if  he 
knew  something  that  we  did  not — something  which 
he  had  been  forbidden  to  tell  us. 

While  we  were  standing  there  the  matting  of  the 
window  was  pushed  aside,  and  Fitz  came  softly  into 
the  dimly  lighted  room.  He  glanced  at  me,  but  at- 
tempted no  sort  of  salutation.  I  saw  him  exchange 
a  long  silent  look  with  Elsie,  and  then  he  took  his 
station  at  the  bedside  next  to  Elsie,  and  opposite  to  the 
brigadier,  who  never  looked  up. 

Charlie  Thurkow  recognized  him,  and  gave  him 
one  of  those  strangely  patronizing  smiles.  Then  he 
turned  his  sunken  eyes  towards  Elsie.  He  looked  at 
her  with  a  gaze  that  became  more  and  more  fixed. 
We  stood  there  for  a  few  minutes — then  I  spoke. 

"He  is  dead,"  I  said. 

The  brigadier  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  across  to 
Fitz.  For  a  second  these  two  men  looked  down  into 
each  other's  souls,  and  I  suppose  Fitz  had  his  reward. 
I  suppose  the  brigadier  had  paid  his  debt  in  full.  I 
had  been  through  too  many  painful  scenes  to  wish  to 

302 


THE    WANDERING    JEW 

prolong  this.  So  I  turned  away,  and  a  general  move 
was  the  result. 

Then  I  saw  that  Elsie  and  Fitz  had  been  standing 
hand-in-hand  all  the  while. 

So  wags  the  world. 


303 


THROUGH  THE  GATE  OF   TEARS 


XVII 

THROUGH    THE    GATE    OF    TEARS 

Give  us — ah!   give  us — but  Yesterday! 

In  the  old  days,  when  the  Malianaddy  was  making 
her  reputation,  she  had  her  tragedy.  And  Dr.  Mark 
Ruthine  has  not  forgotten  it,  nor  forgiven  himself 
yet.  Doctors,  like  the  rest  of  us,  are  apt  to  make  a 
hideous  mistake  or  two  which  resemble  the  stream 
anchors  of  a  big  steamer  warping  out  into  the  Hoogh- 
ly.  We  leave  them  behind,  but  we  do  not  let  go  of 
them.  They  make  a  distinct  difference  to  the  course 
of  our  journey  down  the  stream.  Sometimes  they 
hold  us  back;  occasionally  they  swing  us  into  the 
middle  of  the  current,  where  there  is  no  shoal.  Like 
the  stream  anchors,  they  are  always  there,  behind  us, 
for  our  good. 

Some  few  of  the  Malianaddy  passengers  have  re- 
marked that  Mark  Ruthine  invariably  locks  his  cabin- 
door  whenever  he  leaves  the  little  den  that  serves  him 
for  surgery  and  home.  This  is  the  outward  sign  of 
an  inward  unforgotten  sore. 

This,  by  the  way,  is  not  a  moral  tale.     Virtue 

307 


THROUGH    THE    GATE    OF    TEARS 

does  not  triumph,  nor  will  vice  be  crushed.  It  is  the 
mere  record  of  a  few  mistakes,  culminating  in  Mark 
Ruthine's  blunder — a  little  note  on  human  nature 
without  vice  in  it;  for  there  is  little  vice  in  human 
nature  if  one  takes  the  trouble  to  sift  that  which 
masquerades  as  such. 

It  was,  therefore,  in  old  days,  long  ago,  on  an  out- 
ward voyage  to  Madras,  that  Miss  ISTorah  Hood  was 
placed  under  the  care  of  the  captain,  hedged  safely 
round  by  an  engagement  to  an  old  playmate,  and 
shipped  off  to  the  land  where  the  Anglo-Saxon  dabbles 
in  tragedy. 

Norah  is  fortunately  not  a  common  name.  Mark 
Ruthine's  countenance — a  still  one — changes  ever  so 
slightly  whenever  he  hears  the  name  or  sees  it  in 
print.  Another  outward  sign,  and,  as  such,  naturally 
small. 

When  the  captain  was  introduced  by  a  tall  and 
refined  old  clergyman  to  Miss  Norah  Hood,  he  found 
himself  shaking  hands  with  a  grave  young  person  of 
unassertive  beauty.  Hers  was  the  loveliness  of  the 
violet,  which  is  apt  to  pall  in  this  modern  day — to 
aggravate,  and  to  suggest  wanton  waste.  For  fem- 
inine loveliness  is  on  the  wane — marred,  like  many 
other  good  things,  by  over-education.  Norah  Hood 
was  a  typical  country  parson's  daughter,  who  knew 
the  right  and  did  it,  ignored  the  wrong  and  refused 
to  believe  in  it. 

308 


THROUGH    THE    GATE    OF    TEARS 

The  captain  was  busy  with  his  Mahanaddy.  He 
looked  over  his  shoulder,  and,  seeing  Mark  Ruthine, 
called  him  by  a  glance. 

"This  is  my  doctor,"  he  said,  to  the  scholarly  par- 
son. "He  will  be  happy  to  see  that  Miss  Hood  is 
comfortably  settled  among  us.  I  am  naturally  rather 
a  busy  man  until  we  leave  the  Start  Light  behind  us." 

So  Mark  Ruthine  hovered  about,  and  discreetly 
looked  the  other  way  when  the  moment  of  parting 
came.  He  suspected,  shrewdly  enough,  that  Norah 
was  the  eldest  of  a  large  family — one  less  to  feed  and 
clothe.  An  old  story.  As  the  great  ship  glided 
gently  away  from  the  quay — in  those  days,  the 
Mahanaddy  loaded  at  Southampton — he  went  and 
stood  beside  Norah  Hood.  Kot  that  he  had  anything 
to  say  to  her;  but  his  calling  of  novelist,  his  experi- 
ence of  doctor,  taught  him  that  a  silent  support  is 
what  women  sometimes  want.  They  deal  so  largely 
in  words  that  a  few  unexplained  deeds  sometimes 
refresh  them. 

He  stood  there  until  the  tall,  slim  form  in  the  rusty 
black  coat  was  no  longer  discernible.  Then  he  made 
a  little  movement  and  spoke. 

"Have  you  been  to  your  cabin  ?"  he  asked.  "Do 
you  know  where  it  is  ?" 

"I  have  not  seen  it,"  she  answered  composedly. 
"The  number  of  my  berth  is  seventy-seven." 

There  was  a  singular  lack  of  fluster.     It  was  im- 

309 


THEOUGH    THE    GATE    OF    TEARS 

possible  to  divine  that  she  had  never  trod  the  deck  of 
a  big  steamer  before — that  her  walk  in  life  had  been 
limited  to  the  confines  of  a  tiny,  remote  parish  in  the 
eastern  counties.  Ruthine  glanced  at  her.  He  saw 
that  she  was  quite  self-possessed,  with  something  more 
complete  than  the  self-possession  of  good  breeding. 
It  was  quite  obvious  that  this  woman — for  Norah 
Hood  was  leaving  girlhood  behind — had  led  a  narrow, 
busy  life.  She  had  obviously  lost  the  habit  of  at- 
taching much  importance  to  her  own  feelings,  her  own 
immediate  fate  or  passing  desires,  because  more 
pressing  matters  had  so  long  absorbed  her.  There 
was  a  faint  suggestion  of  that  self-neglect,  almost 
amounting  to  self-contempt,  which  characterizes  the 
manner  of  over-burdened  niotherhood.  This  would 
account  for  her  apparent  ignorance  of  the  fact  that 
she  was  beautiful. 

As  he  led  the  way  down  below  Ruthine  glanced  at 
her  again.  He  had  an  easy  excuse  for  so  doing  on  the 
brass-bound  stairs,  where  landsmen  feet  may  slip. 
He  was,  above  all  things,  a  novelist,  although  he  wrote 
under  another  and  greater  name,  and  those  around 
him  knew  him  not.  He  looked  more  at  human  minds 
than  human  bodies,  and  he  was  never  weary  of  telling 
his  friends  that  he  was  a  poor  doctor.  He  concluded 
— indeed,  her  father  had  almost  told  him — that  she 
was  going  out  to  be  married.  But  he  needed  not  to  be 
told  that  she  was  going  to  marry  a  man  whom  she  did 

310 


THROUGH    THE    GATE    OF    TEARS 

not  love.  He  found  that  out  for  himself  in  a  flash  of 
his  quiet  gray  eyes.  An  expert  less  skilful  than  him- 
self could  see  that  N'orah  Hood  did  not  know  what 
love  was.  Some  women  are  thus — some  few,  God 
help  them !  go  through  life  in  the  same  ignorance. 

He  took  her  down  to  her  cabin — a  small  one,  which 
she  was  fortunate  enough  to  have  to  herself.  He  told 
her  the  hours  of  the  meals,  the  habits  of  the  ship,  and 
the  customs  of  the  ocean.  He  had  a  grave  way  with 
him,  this  doctor,  and  could  put  on  a  fatherly  manner 
when  the  moment  needed  it.  Norah  listened  with  a 
gravity  equal  to  his  own.  She  listened,  moreover, 
with  an  intelligence  which  he  noted. 

"If  you  will  come,"  he  said,  "on  deck  again,  I  will 
introduce  you  to  a  very  kind  friend  of  mine — Mrs. 
Stellasis.     You  have  heard  of  John  Stellasis  ?" 

"No,"  answered  Norah,  rather  indifferently. 

"You  will  some  day — all  the  world  will.  Stellasis 
is  one  of  our  great  men  in  India.  Mrs.  Stellasis  is  a 
great  lady." 

This  was  a  prophecy. 

They  went  on  deck,  and  Mark  Ruthine  effected  the 
introduction.  He  stayed  beside  them  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  did  not  leave  them  until  they  were  deeply 
engrossed  in  a  conversation  respecting  babies  in  gen- 
eral, and  in  particular  a  small  specimen  which  Mrs. 
Stellasis  had  recently  received. 

An  Indian-going  steamer  is  rather  like  a  big  box 

311 


THROUGH   THE   GATE    OF    TEARS 

of  toys.  She  goes  bumping  down  channel,  rolling 
through  the  Bay,  and,  by  the  time  that  Gibraltar  is 
left  behind,  she  has  shaken  her  passengers  into  their 
places. 

ISTorah  Hood  shook  down  very  quietly  into  the 
neighborhood  of  Mrs.  Stellasis,  who  liked  her  and 
began  to  understand  her.  Mrs.  Stellasis — a  good 
woman  and  a  mother — pitied  Norah  Hood  with  an 
increasing  pity ;  for  as  the  quiet  Mediterranean  days 
wore  to  a  close  she  had  established  without  doubt  the 
fact  that  the  engagement  to  the  old  playmate  was  a 
sordid  contract  entered  into  in  all  innocence  by  a  girl 
worthy  of  a  better  fate.  But  Mrs.  Stellasis  hoped 
for  the  best.  She  thought  of  the  "specimen"  slumber- 
ing in  a  berth  six  sizes  too  large  for  it,  and  reflected 
that  N'orah  Hood  might  snatch  considerable  happiness 
out  of  the  contract  after  aU. 

"Do  you  know  anything  of  the  old  playmate?" 
Mrs.  Stellasis  asked  Dr.  Ruthine  suddenly  one  after- 
noon, in  the  Red  Sea. 

Mark  Ruthine  looked  into  the  pleasant  face  and 
saw  a  back  to  the  question — many  backs,  extending 
away  into  a  perspective  of  feminine  speculation. 

"No,"  he  answered  slowly. 

They  lapsed  into  a  little  silence.  And  then  they 
both  looked  up,  and  saw  IS^orah  Hood  walking  slowly 
backwards  and  forwards  with  Manly  Fenn  of  the 
Guides. 

312 


THBOUGH   THE    GATE    OF   TEARS 

After  all,  it  was  onlj  natural  that  these  two  young 
persons  should  drift  together.  They  were  both  so 
"quiet  and  stupid."  Neither  had  much  to  say  to  the 
world,  and  they  both  alike  heard  what  the  world  had 
to  say  with  that  somewhat  judicial  calm  which  knocks 
down  feeble  wit. 

There  was  no  sparkle  about  either  of  them,  and 
the  world  is  given  to  preferring  bad  champagne  to 
good  burgundy  because  of  the  sparkle.  The  world 
therefore  left  Manly  Fenn  alone ;  and  Manly  Fenn, 
well  pleased,  went  about  his  own  business.  It  has 
been  decreed  that  men  who  go  about  their  own  busi- 
ness very  carefully,  find  that  it  is  a  larger  affair  than 
they  at  first  took  it  to  be.  Manly  Fenn  had  never 
been  aware  until  quite  lately  that  those  things  which 
he  took  to  be  his  own  affairs  were  in  reality  the  busi- 
ness of  an  Empire.  The  Empire  found  it  out  before 
Manly  Fenn — found  it  out,  indeed,  when  its  faith- 
ful servant  was  hiring  himself  out  as  assistant 
herdsman  to  a  large  farmer  on  the  Beloochistan 
frontier. 

And  Major  Fenn  had  to  buy  a  new  uniform,  had 
to  interview  many  high-placed  persons,  and  had, 
finally,  to  present  himself  before  his  Gracious  Sover- 
eign, who  hooked  a  little  cross  into  the  padding  of  his 
tunic — all  of  which  matters  were  extremely  disagree- 
able to  Manly  Fenn. 

Finally,  the  devil — as  the  captain  bluffly  affirmed 

313 


THKOUGH    THE    GATE    OF    TEAKS 

— brought  it  to  pass  that  he,  Manly  Fenn,  should  take 
passage  in  the  Mafianaddy  on  the  voyage  of  which  we 
have  to  do. 

It  was  very  sudden,  and  many  thorough  things  are 
so.  It  happened  somewhere  in  the  Red  Sea,  and  Mrs. 
Stellasis  was  probably  the  first  to  sniff  danger  in  the 
breeze.  That  was  why  she  asked  Mark  Ruthine  if  he 
knew  anything  about  the  old  playmate  to  whom 
Norah  Hood  was  engaged.  That  was  why  Mark 
Ruthine  looked  for  the  back  of  the  question ;  for  he 
was  almost  as  expert  as  a  woman  among  the  human- 
ities. 

Somewhere    between   Ismailia    and   the    Gate   of 

Tears,  Love  came  on  board  the  Mahanaddy — a  sorry 
pilot — and  took  charge  of  Manly  Fenn  and  the  girl 
who  was  going  out  to  marry  her  old  playmate. 

It  was  a  serious  matter  from  the  first — like  a  fever 
that  takes  a  man  of  middle  age  who  has  never  been  ill 
before. 

There  was  a  consultation  of  the  authorities — ^Mrs. 
Stellasis,  namely,  and  the  captain,  and  Mark 
Ruthine. 

The  captain  disgraced  himself  early  in  the  pro- 
ceedings. 

"Perhaps  it  is  only  a  flirtation,"  he  said. 

Whereupon  Mrs.  Stellasis  laughed  scornfully,  and 
the  mariner  collapsed.  Moreover,  the  consultation 
resulted  in  nothing,  although  Stellasis  himself  joined 

314 


THROUGH    THE    GATE    OF    TEARS 

it,  looking  grave  and  thoughtful  behind  his  great  gray 
mustache. 

"Known  Manly  Fenn  for  ten  years,"  he  said ;  "but 
I  am  afraid  of  him  still.  I  cannot  speak  to  him. 
Can  you  not  say  something  to  the  girl  ?" 

But  Mrs.  Stellasis  shook  her  head  with  determina- 
tion. That  was  the  worst  of  it — they  were  not  the 
sort  of  persons  to  whom  any  one  can  say  such  things. 
The  captain  was  technically  responsible,  but  he  had 
proved  himself  utterly  incompetent.  "No,"  said  Mrs. 
Stellasis  finally.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but 
hope  for  the  best.  Of  course,  Mrs.  Stellasis  was  with- 
out conscience — quite  without  justice.  It  is  to  be 
feared  that  nearly  all  women  are.  She  was  all  for 
Manly  Fenn  and  dead  against  the  old  playmate,  whom 
she  intuitively  described  as  "that  stupid." 

In  the  meantime  all  the  ship  knew  it.  In  some 
ways  the  two  culprits  were  singularly  innocent.  It 
is  possible  that  they  did  not  knoAV  that  the  world  is 
never  content  unless  it  is  elbow-deep  in  its  neighbor's 
pie — that  their  affairs  were  the  talk  of  the  Maha- 
naddy.  It  is  also  possible  that  they  knew  and  did 
not  care. 

The  good  steamer  pounded  out  of  the  Gate  of 
Tears  and  struck  a  bee-line  across  the  Arabian  Sea. 
The  passengers  settled  down  to  await  the  sequel  which 
would  be  delivered  to  them  at  Madras. 

Norah  Hood  and  Fenn  were  together  from  morning 

315 


THROUGH    THE    GATE    OF    TEARS 

till  night.  They  seemed  to  ignore  the  sequel,  which 
made  it  all  the  more  exciting  for  the  lookers-on. 
l^orah  still  saw  a  good  deal  of  Mrs.  Stellasis.  She  still 
took  a  great  interest  in  the  "specimen,"  whose  small 
ailments  received  her  careful  attention.  With  Mark 
Ruthine  she  was  almost  familiar,  in  her  quiet  way. 
She  came  to  his  little  surgery  to  get  such  minute 
potions  as  the  "specimen"  might  require.  She  even 
got  to  know  the  bottles,  and  mixed  the  drugs  herself 
while  he  laughingly  watched  her.  She  had  dispensed 
for  a  village  population  at  home,  and  knew  a  little 
medicine. 

Ruthine  encouraged  her  to  come,  gave  her  the  free- 
dom of  his  medicine  chests,  and  all  the  while  he 
watched  her.  She  interested  him.  There  were  so 
many  things  which  he  could  not  reconcile. 

In  some  ways  she  was  quite  a  different  woman. 
This  love  which  had  come  to  her  suddenly — rather 
late  in  her  life — had  made  a  strange  being  of  her. 
She  was  still  gentle,  and  rather  prim  and  quite  self- 
possessed.  She  looked  Ruthine  in  the  face,  and  knew 
that  he  knew  all  about  her;  but  she  was  not  in  the 
least  discomposed.  She  was  astonishingly  daring. 
She  defied  him  and  the  whole  world — gently. 

The  little  Dutch  lighthouse  at  Galle  was  duly 
sighted,  and  the  Malianaddy  was  in  the  Bay  of  Ben- 
gal. The  last  dinner  was  duly  consumed,  and  the 
usual  speech  made  by  the  usual  self-assertive  old 

316 


THROUGH    THE    GATE    OF    TEARS 

civilian.  And,  for  the  last  time^  the  Mahanaddy 
passengers  said  good  night  to  each  other,  seeking  their 
cabins  with  a  pleasant  sense  of  anticipation.  The 
next  day  would  bring  the  seqnel. 

A  stewardess  awoke  Mark  Ruthine  up  before  it 
was  light.  He  followed  the  woman  to  number  sev- 
enty-seven cabin.  There  he  found  Norah  Hood, 
dressed,  lying  quietly  on  her  berth — dead. 

A  bottle — one  of  his  bottles  from  the  medicine- 
chest — stood  on  the  table  beside  her. 


317 


A  PARIAH 


XVIII 

A    PARIAH 

"  I  have  heard  that  there  is  corn  in  Egypt." 

Slyne's  Chare  is  in  South  Shields,  and  Mason's 
Chop  House  stands  at  the  lower  corner  of  Slyne's 
Chare — Mason's  Chop  House,  where  generations  of 
honest  Tyneside  sailors  have  consumed  pounds  of 
honest  mutton  and  beef,  and  onions  therewith.  For 
your  true  salt  loves  an  onion  ashore,  which  makes  him 
a  pleasanter  companion  at  sea.  Mason's  Chop  House 
is  a  low-roofed,  red-tiled,  tarred  cottage  with  a  bal- 
cony— a  "balcohny"  overhanging  the  river.  It  is 
quite  evident  that  the  "balcohny"  was  originally  built, 
and  has  subsequently  been  kept  in  repair,  by  ships' 
carpenters.  It  is  so  glaringly  ship-shape,  so  redolent 
of  tar,  so  ridiculously  strong. 

The  keen  fresh  breeze — and  there  is  nothing  keen- 
er, fresher,  stronger,  and  wholcsomer  in  the  world 
than  that  which  comes  roaring  up  between  the  two 
piers  of  the  Tyne — this  breeze  blows  right  througl 
Mason's,  and  blows  the  fume  of  cooking  out  into 
Slyne's  Chare. 

321 


1 


A    PARIAH 

It  is  evening — tea-time — and  the  day's  work  is 
almost  done ;  for  Mason's  does  little  in  suppers.  A 
bullet-headed  boy  is  rubbing  pewter  pots  at  the  door. 
Mrs.  Mason,  comfortably  somnolent  at  the  entrance 
of  the  little  kitchen,  watches  her  daughter — comely, 
grave-faced  Annie  Mason — '^our  Annie,"  as  she  is 
called,  who  is  already  folding  the  table-cloths.  A  few 
belated  customers  linger  in  the  partitioned  loose-boxes 
which  lend  a  certain  small  privacy  to  the  tables,  and 
often  save  a  fight.  They  are  talking  in  gruff,  North- 
country  voices,  which  are  never  harsh. 

A  man  comes  in,  after  a  moment's  awkward  pause 
at  the  open  door,  and  seeks  a  secluded  seat  where  the 
gas  overhead  hardly  affords  illumination.  He  is  a 
broad-built  man — a  Tynesider;  not  so  very  big  for 
South  Shields ;  a  matter  of  six  feet  one,  perhaps.  He 
carries  a  blue  spotted  handkerchief  against  his  left 
cheek,  and  the  boy  with  the  pewter  pots  stares  eagerly 
at  the  other.  A  boy  of  poor  tact  this;  for  the  cus- 
tomer's right  cheek  is  horribly  disfigured.  It  is  all 
bruised  and  battered  in  from  the  curve  of  a  square 
jaw  to  the  cheek-bone,  which  is  broken.  But  the  eye 
is  intact ;  a  shrewd,  keen  eye,  accustomed  to  the  pene- 
tration of  a  Northern  mist — accustomed  to  a  close 
scrutiny  of  men's  faces.  It  is  painfully  obvious  that 
this  sailor — for  gait  and  clothes  and  manner  set  aside 
all  other  crafts — is  horribly  conscious  of  his  de- 
formity. 

322 


A    PARIAH 

"Got  the  toothache  ?"  inquires  the  tactless  youth. 

The  newcomer  replies  in  the  negative  and  orders 
a  cup  of  tea  and  a  herring.  It  is  Annie  who  brings 
the  simple  meal  and  sets  it  down  without  looking  at 
the  man. 

"Thanks,"  he  growls  in  his  brown  beard,  and  the 
woman  pauses  suddenly.  She  listens,  as  if  hearing 
some  distant  sound.  Then  she  slowly  turns — for  she 
has  gone  a  step  or  two  from  the  table — and  makes  a 
pretence  of  setting  the  salt  and  pepper  closer  to  him. 

Three  ships  had  come  up  with  the  afternoon  tide — 
a  coaster,  a  Norwegian  bark  in  ballast,  and  a  full- 
rigged  ship  with  nitrate  from  the  West  Coast  of  South 
America. 

"Just  ashore  ?"  inquired  Annie — economical  with 
her  words,  as  they  mostly  are  round  the  Northern 
river. 

"Ay!" 

"From  the  West  Coast  ?" 

"Ay,"  grumbles  the  man.  He  holds  the  handker- 
chief to  his  cheek,  and  turns  the  herring  tentatively 
with  a  fork. 

"You'll  find  it's  a  good  enough  fish,"  says  the 
woman,  bluntly.  Her  two  hands  are  pressed  to  her 
comely  bosom  in  a  singular  way. 

"Ay!"  says  the  man  again,  as  if  he  had  no  other 
word. 

The  clock  strikes  six,  and  the  boy,  more  mindful 

323 


A    PAKIAH 

of  his  own  tea  than  his  neighbor's  ailments,  slips  on 
his  jacket  and  goes  home.  The  last  customers  waddle 
out  with  a  grunt  intended  for  a  salutation.  Mrs. 
Mason  is  softly  heard  to  snore.  And  all  the  while 
Annie  Mason — all  the  color  vanished  from  her  whole- 
some face — stands  with  her  hands  clutching  her  dress 
gazing  down  at  the  man,  who  still  examines  the  her- 
ring with  a  self-conscious  awkwardness. 

"Geordie !"  she  says.  They  are  all  called  Geordie 
in  South  Shields. 

"Ay,  lass !"  he  answers,  shamefacedly. 

Annie  Mason  sits  down  suddenly — opposite  to  him. 
He  does  not  look  up  but  remains,  his  face  half  hidden 
by  the  spotted  blue  handkerchief,  a  picture  of  self- 
conscious  guilt  and  shame. 

"What  did  ye  do  it  for,  Geordie  ?"  she  asks, 
breathlessly.  "Eleven  years,  come  March — oh,  it  was 
cruel!" 

"What  did  I  do  it  for  ?"  he  repeats.  "What  did  I 
do  it  for  ?    Why,  lass,  can't  ye  see  my  face  ?" 

He  drops  the  handkerchief,  and  holds  up  his  poor 
scarred  countenance.  He  does  not  look  at  her,  but 
away  past  her  with  the  pathetic  shame  of  a  maimed 
dog.  The  cheek  thus  suddenly  exposed  to  view  is 
whole  and  brown  and  healthy.  Beneath  the  mahog- 
any-colored skin  there  is  a  glow  singularly  suggestive 
of  a  blush. 

"Ay,  I  see  your  face,"  she  answers,  with  a  note  of 

324 


A    PARIAH 

tenderness  for  the  poor  scarred  cheek.     ''I  hope  you 
haven't  been  at  the  drink." 

He  shakes  his  head  with  a  little  sad  smile  that 
twists  up  his  one-sided  mouth. 

"Is  it  because  you  wanted  to  get  shot  of  me  ?"  asks 
the  woman,  with  a  sort  of  breathlessness.  She  has 
large  gray-blue  eyes  with  a  look  of  constant  waiting 
in  them — a  habit  of  looking  up  at  the  open  door  at 
the  sound  of  every  footstep. 

"D n  it,  Annie.     Could  I  come  back  to  you 

with  a  face  like  this ;  and  you  the  prettiest  lass  on  the 
Tyneside  ?" 

She  is  fumbling  with  her  apron  string.  There  is 
a  half-coquettish  bend  of  her  head — with  the  gray 
hairs  already  at  the  temple — awakened  perhaps  by 
some  far-off  echo  in  his  passionate  voice.  She  looks 
up  slowly,  and  does  not  answer  his  question. 

"Tell  us,"  she  says,  slowly.  "Tell  us  where  ye've 
been." 

"Been  ? — oh,  I  don't  know,  lass !  I  don't  rightly 
remember.  Not  that  it  matters.  Up  the  West  Coast, 
trading  backwards  and  forw^ards.  I've  got  my  mas- 
ter's certificate  now.  Serving  first  mate  on  board  the 
Mallard  to  Falmouth  for  orders,  and  they  ordered  us 
to  the  Tyne.  I  brought  her  round — I  knew  the  way. 
I  thought  you'd  be  married,  lass.  But  maybe  ye 
are  ?" 

"Maybe  I'm  daft,"  puts  in  Annie,  coolly. 

325 


A    PARIAH 

"I  greatly  feared,"  the  man  goes  on  with  the  slow 
self-consciousness  of  one  unaccustomed  to  talk  of  him- 
self. "I  greatly  feared  I'd  meet  up  with  a  bairn  of 
yours  playing  in  the  doorway.  Losh !  I  could  not 
have  stood  ihat!  But  that's  why  I  stayed  away,  An- 
nie, lass !  So  that  you  might  marry  a  man  with  a  face 
on  him.  I  thought  you  would  not  know  me  if  I  held 
up  my  handkerchief  over  my  other  cheek !" 

There  is  a  strange  gleam  in  the  woman's  eyes — a 
gleam  that  one  or  two  of  the  old  masters  have  succeed- 
ed in  catching  and  imparting  to  the  face  of  their 
Madonnas,  but  only  one  or  two. 

"How  did  you  come  by  your  hurt?"  she  asks  in 
her  low  voice. 

"Board  the  old  Walleroo  going  out.  You  mind  the 
old  ship  ?  We  had  a  fire  in  the  hold,  and  the  skipper 
he  would  go  down  alone  to  locate  it  before  we  cut  a 
hole  in  the  deck  and  shipped  the  hose  in.  The  old 
man  did  not  come  up  again.  Ye  mind  him.  Old 
Rvitherford  of  Jarrow.  And  I  went  down  and  looked 
for  him.  It  was  a  hell  of  smoke  and  fire,  and  some- 
thing in  the  cargo  stinking  like — like  hell  fire  as  it 
burnt.  I  got  a  hold  of  the  old  man,  and  was  fetching 
him  out  on  my  hands  and  knees,  when  something  busts 
up  and  sends  us  all  through  the  deck.  I  had  three 
moiiths  in  Valparaiso  hospital ;  but  I  saved  old  Jack 
Rutherford  of  Jarrow.  And  when  I  got  up  and  looked 
at  my  face  I  saw  that  it  was  not  in  the  nature  of  things 

326 


A    PARIAH 

that  I  cowld  ever  ask  a  lass  to  have  me.  So  I  just 
stayed  away  and  made  believe  that — that  I  had 
changed  my  mind." 

The  man  pauses.  He  is  not  glib  of  speech,  though 
quick  enough  at  sea.  As  he  takes  up  the  little  teapot 
and  shakes  it  roundwisCj  after  the  manner  of  the  gal- 
ley, his  great  brown  hand  shakes  too. 

"I  would  not  have  come  back  here,"  he  goes  on 
after  a  silence ;  ''but  the  Mallard  was  ordered  to  the 
Tyne.  And  a  chap  must  do  his  duty  by  his  shipmates 
and  his  owners.  And  I  thought  it  would  be  safe — 
after  eleven  years.  When  I  saw  the  old  place  and 
smelt  the  smell  of  the  old  woman's  frying-pan,  I  could 
not  get  past  the  door.  But  I  hung  around,  looking  to 
make  sure  there  were  no  bairns  playing  on  the  floor. 
I  have  only  come  in,  lass,  to  pass  the  time  of  day  and 
to  tell  you  ye're  a  free  woman." 

He  is  not  looking  at  her.  He  seems  to  find  that 
difficult.  So  he  does  not  see  the  queer  little  smile — 
rather  sadder  in  itself,  than  tears. 

"And  you  stayed  away  eleven  years — because  o' 
thatf^  says  the  woman,  slowly. 

"Ay,  you  know,  lass,  I'm  no  great  hand  at  the 
preaching  and  Bibles  and  the  like ;  but  it  seems  pretty 
clear  that  them  who's  working  things  did  not  think 
it  fit  that  we  should  marry.  And  so  it  was  sent.  I 
got  to  think  it  so  in  time — ^least,  I  think  it's  that  some- 
times.    And  no  woman  would  like  to  say,  'That's  my 

327 


A    PARIAH 

man — him  with  only  half  a  face.'     So  I  just  stayed 


awav." 


'All  for  that  ?"  asks  the  woman,  her  face,  which 
is  still  pretty  and  round  and  rosy,  working  convul- 
sively. 

"Av,  lass." 

"Then,  honey,"  she  cries,  softly,  "you  dinna  under- 
stand us  women!" 


328 


THE  PRODIGALS   RETURN 


XIX 

THE  PRODIGAL'S  RETURN^ 

"Yes,  mother,  he  will  come.  Of  course  he  will 
come !"  and  the  girl  turned  her  drawn  and  anxious 
young  face  towards  the  cottage  door,  just  as  if  her 
blind  mother  could  see  the  action. 

It  is  probable  that  the  old  woman  divined  the  long- 
ing glance  from  the  change  in  the  girl's  tone,  for  she, 
too,  half  turned  towards  the  door.  It  was  a  habit 
these  two  women  had  acquired.  They  constantly 
looked  towards  the  door  for  the  arrival  of  one  who 
never  came  through  the  long  summer  days,  through 
the  quiet  winter  evenings ;  moreover,  they  rarely  spoke 
of  other  things,  this  arrival  was  the  topic  of  their 
lives.  And  now  the  old  woman's  life  was  drawing  to 
a  close  as  some  lives  do,  without  its  object.  She  her- 
self felt  it,  and  her  daughter  knew  it. 

There  was  in  both  of  them  a  subtle  sense  of  cling- 
ing. It  was  hard  to  die  without  touching  the  reward 
of  a  wondrous  patience.  It  was  cruel  to  deprive  the 
girl  of  this  burden,  for  in  most  burdens  there  is  a 
safeguard,  in  all  a  duty,  and  in  some  the  greatest  hap- 
piness allotted  to  human  existence. 

331 


THE    PEODIGAL'S    RETURN 

It  was  no  new  thing,  this  waiting  for  the  scapegrace 
son ;  the  girl  had  grown  up  to  it,  for  she  would  not 
know  her  brother  should  she  meet  him  in  the  street. 
Since  sight  had  left  the  old  mother's  eyes,  she  had  fed 
her  heart  upon  this  hope. 

He  had  left  them  eighteen  years  before  in  a  fit  of 
passionate  resentment  against  his  father,  whose  only 
fault  had  been  too  great  an  indulgence  for  the  son  of 
his  old  age.  Nothing  had  been  too  good  for  dear 
Stephen — ^hardly  anything  had  been  good  enough. 
Educated  at  a  charity  school  himself,  the  simple  old 
clergyman  held  the  mistaken  view  that  no  man  can  be 
educated  above  his  station. 

There  are  some  people  who  hold  this  view  still, 
but  they  cannot  do  so  much  longer.  Strikes,  labor 
troubles,  and  the  difficulties  of  domestic  service;  so- 
called  gentleman  farmers,  gentleman  shopkeepers  and 
lady  milliners — above  all,  a  few  colonies  peopled  by 
University  failures,  will  teach  us  in  time  that  to  edu- 
cate our  sons  above  their  station  is  to  handicap  them 
cruelly  in  the  race  of  life. 

Stephen  Leach  was  one  of  the  early  victims  to  this 
craze.  His  father,  having  risen  by  the  force  of  his 
own  will  and  the  capabilities  of  his  own  mind  from 
the  People  to  the  Church,  held,  as  such  men  do,  that 
he  had  only  to  give  his  son  a  good  education  to  ensure 
his  career  in  life.     So  everything — even  to  the  old 

332 


THE    PKODIGAL'S    KETUKN 

parson's  sense  of  right  and  wrong — was  sacrificed  to 
the  education  of  Stephen  Leach  at  public  school  and 
University.  Here  he  met  and  selected  for  his  friends 
youths  whose  futures  were  ensured,  and  who  were 
only  passing  through  the  formula  of  an  education  so 
that  no  one  could  say  they  were  unfit  for  the  snug 
Government  appointment,  living,  or  inheritance  of  a 
more  substantial  sort,  that  might  be  waiting  for  them. 
Stephen  acquired  their  ways  6f  life  without  possessing 
their  advantages,  and  the  consequence  was  something 
very  nearly  approaching  to  ruin  for  the  little  country 
rectory.  ]^ot  having  been  a  University  man  himself, 
the  rector  did  not  know  that  at  Oxford  or  Cambridge, 
as  in  the  army,  one  may  live  according  to  one's  taste. 
Stephen  Leach  had  expensive  tastes,  and  he  unscrupu- 
lously traded  on  his  father's  ignorance.  He  was  good- 
looking,  and  had  a  certain  brilliancy  of  manner  which 
"goes  down"  well  at  the  'Varsity.  Everything  was 
against  him,  and  at  last  the  end  came.  At  last  the 
rector's  eyes  were  opened,  and  when  a  narrow-minded 
man's  eyes  are  once  opened  he  usually  becomes  stony 
at  heart. 

Stephen  Leach  left  England,  and  before  he  landed 
in  America  his  father  had  departed  on  a  longer  jour- 
ney. The  ne'er-do-well  had  the  good  grace  to  send 
back  the  little  sums  of  money  saved  by  his  mother  in 
her  widowhood,  and  gradually  his  letters  ceased.     It 

333 


THE    PEODIGAL'S    KETUEN 

was  known  that  he  was  in  Chili,  and  there  was  war 
going  on  there,  and  jet  the  good  old  lady's  faith  never 
wavered. 

"He  will  come,  Joyce,"  she  would  say;  "he  will 
surely  come." 

And  somehow  it  came  to  be  an  understood  thing 
that  he  was  to  come  in  the  afternoon  when  they  were 
all  ready  for  him — when  Joyce  had  clad  her  pretty 
young  form  in  a  dark  dress,  and  when  the  old  lady 
was  up  and  seated  in  her  chair  by  the  fire  in  winter, 
by  the  door  in  summer.  They  had  never  imagined 
his  arrival  at  another  time.  It  would  not  be  quite 
the  same  should  he  make  a  mistake  and  come  in  the 
morning,  before  Joyce  had  got  the  house  put  right. 

Yet,  he  never  came.  A  greater  infirmity  came  in- 
stead, and  at  last  Joyce  suggested  that  her  mother 
should  not  get  up  in  bad  weather.  They  both  knew 
what  this  meant,  but  the  episode  passed  as  others  do, 
and  Mrs.  Leach  was  bedridden.    Still  she  said — 

"He  will  come,  Joyce !    He  will  surely  come." 

And  the  girl  would  go  to  the  window  and  draw 
aside  the  curtain,  looking  do-\vn  the  quiet  country  road 
towards  the  village. 

"Yes,  mother,  he  will  come!"  was  her  usual  an- 
swer; and  one  day  she  gave  a  little  exclamation  of 
surprise  and  almost  of  fear. 

"Mother"  she  exclaimed,  "there  is  some  one  coming 
along  the  road." 

334 


THE    PEODIGAUS    RETURN 

The  old  lady  was  already  sitting  up  in  bed,  staring 
with  her  sightless  orbs  towards  the  window. 

Thus  they  waited.  The  man  stopped  opposite  the 
cottage,  and  the  two  women  heard  the  latch  of  the 
gate.  Then  Joyce,  turning,  saw  that  her  mother  had 
fainted.  But  it  was  only  momentary.  By  the  time 
she  reached  the  bed  her  mother  had  recovered  con- 
sciousness. 

"Go,"  said  the  old  lady,  breathlessly;  "go  and  let 
him  in  yourself." 

Downstairs,  on  the  doorstep,  the  girl  found  a  tall 
man  of  thirty  or  thereabouts  with  a  browner  face  than 
English  suns  could  account  for.  He  looked  down  into 
her  eager  eyes  with  a  strange  questioning  wonder. 

"Am  I  too  late  ?"  he  asked  in  a  voice  which  almost 
seemed  to  indicate  a  hope  that  it  might  be  so. 

"No,  Stephen,"  she  answered.  "But  mother  can- 
not live  much  longer.    You  are  just  in  time." 

The  young  man  made  a  hesitating  little  movement 
with  his  right  hand  and  shuffled  uneasily  on  the  clean 
stone  step.  He  was  like  an  actor  called  suddenly 
upon  the  stage  having  no  knowledge  of  his  part.  The 
return  of  this  prodigal  was  not  a  dramatic  success. 
No  one  seemed  desirous  of  learning  whether  he  had 
lived  upon  husks  or  otherwise  and  with  whom  he  had 
eaten.  The  quiet  dignity  of  the  girl,  who  had  re- 
mained behind  to  do  all  the  work  and  bear  all  the 
burden,  seemed  in  some  subtle  manner  to  deprive  him 

335 


THE    PKODIGAL'S   KETUKN 

of  any  romance  that  might  have  attached  itself  to  him. 
She  ignored  his  half -proffered  hand,  and  turning  into 
the  little  passage  led  the  way  upstairs. 

Stephen  Leach  followed  silently.  He  was  rather 
large  for  the  house,  and  especially  for  the  stairs; 
moreover,  he  had  a  certain  burliness  of  walk,  such  as 
is  acquired  by  men  living  constantly  in  the  open. 
There  was  a  vaguely-pained  look  in  his  blue  eyes,  as  if 
they  had  suddenly  been  opened  to  his  own  shortcom- 
ings. His  attitude  towards  Joyce  was  distinctly 
apologetic. 

When  he  followed  the  girl  across  the  threshold  of 
their  mother's  bedroom  the  old  lady  was  sitting  up 
in  bed,  holding  out  trembling  arms  towards  the  door. 

Here  Stephen  Leach  seemed  to  know  better  what 
to  do.  He  held  his  mother  in  his  arms  while  she 
sobbed  and  murmured  out  her  joy.  He  had  no  words, 
but  his  arms  meant  more  than  his  lips  could  ever  have 
told. 

It  would  seem  that  the  best  part  of  happiness  is 
the  sharing  of  it  with  some  one  else. 

"Joyce"  was  the  first  distinct  word  the  old  lady 
spoke,  "Joyce,"  he  has  come  at  last.  Lie  has  come ! 
Come  here,  dear.  Kiss  your  brother.  This  is  my 
firstborn — my  little  Steve." 

The  young  man  had  sunk  upon  his  knees  at  the 
bedside,  probably  because  it  was  the  most  convenient 
position.     He  did  not  second  his  mother's  proposal 

336 


THE    PEODIGAL'S    RETUKN 

with  much  enthusiasm.  Altogether  he  did  not  seem 
to  have  discovered  much  sympathy  with  the  sister 
whom  he  had  left  in  her  cradle. 

Joyce  came  forward  and  leaned  over  the  bed  to  kiss 
her  brother  while  the  old  lady's  hands  joined  theirs. 
Just  as  her  fresh  young  lips  came  within  reach  he 
turned  his  face  aside,  so  that  the  kiss  fell  on  barren 
ground  on  his  tanned  cheek. 

^'Joyce,"  continued  the  old  lady  feverishly,  "I 
am  not  afraid  to  die  now,  for  Stephen  is  here. 
Your  brother  will  take  care  of  you,  dear,  when  I  am 
gone." 

It  was  strange  that  Stephen  had  not  spoken  yet; 
and  it  was  perhaps  just  as  well,  because  there  are 
occasions  in  life  when  men  do  wisely  to  keep  silent. 

"He  is  strong,"  the  proud  mother  went  on.  "I 
can  feel  it.  His  hands  are  large  and  steady  and  quiet, 
and  his  arms  are  big  and  very  hard." 

The  young  man  knelt  upright  and  submitted  gravely 
to  this  maternal  inventory. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  "I  knew  he  would  grow  to  be  a 
big  man.  His  little  fingers  were  so  strong — he  hurt 
me  sometimes.  ^Vllat  a  great  mustache  !  I  knew  you 
had  been  a  soldier.  And  the  skin  of  your  face  is 
brown  and  a  little  rough.  What  is  this  ?  what  is  this, 
Stephen  dear  ?     Is  this  a  wound  ?" 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Prodigal,  speaking  for  the 
first  time.     "That  is  a  sword  cut.     I  got  that  in  the 

337 


THE    PRODIGAL'S    RETURN 

last  war.  I  am  a  colonel  in  the  Chilian  army,  or  was, 
before  I  resigned." 

The  old  lady's  sightless  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face 
as  if  listening  for  the  echo  of  another  voice  in  his  deep 
quiet  tones. 

"Your  voice  is  deeper  than  your  father's  ever  was," 
she  said;  and  all  the  while  her  trembling  fingers 
moved  lovingly  over  his  face,  touching  the  deep  cut 
from  cheek-bone  to  jaw  with  soft  inquiry.  "This 
must  have  been  very  near  your  eye,  Stephen.  Promise 
me,  dear,  no  more  soldiering." 

"I  promise  that,"  he  replied,  without  raising  his 
eyes. 

Such  was  the  home-coming  of  the  Prodigal.  After 
all,  he  arrived  at  the  right  moment  in  the  afternoon, 
when  the  house  was  ready.  It  sometimes  does  hap- 
pen so  in  real  life,  and  not  only  in  books.  There  is 
a  great  deal  that  might  be  altered  in  this  world,  but 
sometimes,  by  a  mere  chance,  things  come  about  right- 
ly. And  yet  there  was  something  wrong,  something 
subtle,  which  the  dying  woman's  duller  senses  failed 
to  detect.  Her  son,  her  Stephen,  was  quiet,  and  had 
not  much  to  say  for  himself.  He  apparently  had  the 
habit  of  taking  things  as  they  came.  There  was  no 
enthusiasm,  but  rather  a  restraint  in  his  manner,  more 
especially  towards  Joyce. 

The  girl  noticed  it,  but  even  her  small  experience 
of  human  kind  had  taught  her  that  large,  fair-skinned 

338 


THE    PEODIGAL'S    EETURN 

men  are  often  thus.  They  are  not  "de  ceux  qui 
s'expliquent,"  but  go  through  life  placidly,  leaving 
unsaid  and  undone  many  things  which  some  think 
they  ought  to  say  and  do. 

After  the  first  excitement  of  the  return  was  over  it 
became  glaringly  apparent  that  Stephen  had  arrived 
just  in  time.  His  mother  fell  into  a  happy  sleep  be- 
fore sunset ;  and  when  the  active  young  doctor  came 
a  little  later  in  the  evening  he  shook  his  head. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  see  that  she  is  asleep  and  quiet 
— too  quiet.  It  is  a  foretaste  of  a  longer  sleep ;  some 
old  people  have  it." 

For  the  first  time  Joyce's  courage  seemed  to  give 
way.  When  she  had  been  alone  she  was  brave  enough, 
but  now  that  her  brother  was  there,  womanlike,  she 
seemed  to  turn  to  him  with  a  sudden  fear.  They  stood 
side  by  side  near  the  bed,  and  the  young  doctor  in- 
voluntarily watched  them.  Stephen  had  taken  her 
hand  in  his  with  that  silent  sympathy  which  was  so 
natural  and  so  eloquent.  He  said  nothing,  this  big, 
sun-tanned  youth  ;  he  did  not  even  glance  down  at  his 
sister,  who  stood  small,  soft-eyed,  and  gentle  at  his 
side. 

The  doctor  knew  something  of  the  history  of  the 
small  family  thus  momentarily  united,  and  he  had 
always  feared  that  if  Stephen  Leach  did  return  it 
would  only  kill  his  mother.  This,  indeed,  seemed  to 
be  the  result  about  to  follow. 

339 


THE    PKODIGAL'S    RETURN 

Presently  the  doctor  took  his  leave.  He  was  a 
young  man  engaged  in  getting  together  a  good  prac- 
tice, and  in  his  own  interest  he  had  been  forced  to  give 
up  waiting  for  his  patients  to  finish  dying. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  here,"  he  said  to  Stephen,  who 
accompanied  him  to  the  door,  "It  would  not  do  for 
your  sister  to  be  alone ;  this  may  go  on  for  a  couple 
of  days." 

It  did  not  go  on  for  a  couple  of  days,  but  Mrs. 
Leach  lived  through  that  night  in  the  same  semi- 
comatose state.  The  two  watchers  sat  in  her  room 
until  supper-time,  when  they  left  their  mother  in 
charge  of  a  hired  nurse,  whose  services  Joyce  had  been 
forced  to  seek. 

After  supper  Stephen  Leach  seemed  at  last  to  find 
his  tongue,  and  he  talked  in  his  quiet,  almost  gentle 
voice,  such  as  some  big  men  possess,  not  about  himself 
or  the  past,  but  about  Joyce  and  the  future.  In  a 
deliberate  business-like  way  he  proceeded  to  investi- 
gate the  affairs  of  the  dying  woman  and  the  prospects 
of  her  daughter ;  in  a  word,  he  asserted  his  authority 
as  a  brother,  and  Joyce  was  relieved  and  happy  to 
obey  him. 

It  is  not  in  times  of  gayety  that  friendships  are 
formed,  but  in  sorrow  or  suspense.  During  that  long 
evening  this  brother  and  sister  suddenly  became  inti- 
mate, more  so  than  months  of  prosperous  intercourse 
could  have  made  them.    At  ten  o'clock  Stephen  quietly 

340 


THE    PRODIGAL'S    RETURN 

insisted  that  Joyce  should  go  to  bed  while  he  lay 
down,  all  dressed,  on  the  sofa  in  the  dining-room. 

"I  shall  sleep  perfectly;  it  is  not  the  first  time  I 
have  slept  in  my  clothes,"  he  said  simply. 

They  went  upstairs  together  and  told  the  nurse  of 
this  arrangement.  Joyce  remained  for  some  moments 
by  the  bedside  watching  her  mother's  peaceful  sleep, 
and  when  she  turned  she  found  that  Stephen  had 
quietly  slipped  away.  Wondering  vaguely  whether 
he  had  intentionally  solved  her  difficulty  as  to  the 
fraternal  good-night,  she  went  to  her  own  room. 

The  next  morning  Mrs.  Leach  was  fully  conscious, 
and  appeared  to  be  stronger ;  nevertheless,  she  knew 
that  the  end  was  near.  She  called  her  two  children  to 
her  bedside,  and,  turning  her  blind  eyes  towards  them, 
spoke  in  broken  sentences. 

"I  am  ready  now — I  am  ready,"  she  said.  "Dears, 
I  am  going  to  your  father — and  .  .  .  thank  God,  I 
can  tell  him  that  I  have  left  you  together.  I  always 
knew  Stephen  would  come  back.  I  found  it  written 
everywhere  in  the  Bible.     Stephen — kiss  me,  dear!" 

The  man  leant  over  the  bed  and  kissed  her. 

"Ah !"  she  sighed,  "how  I  wish  I  could  see  you — 
just  once  before  I  die.  Joyce !"  she  added,  suddenly 
turning  to  her  daughter,  who  stood  at  the  other  side  of 
the  bed,  "tell  me  what  he  is  like.  But — I  know  .  .  , 
I  know — I  feel  it.  Listen !  He  is  tall  and  spare,  like 
his  father.     His  hair  is  black,  like — like  his  father's 

341 


THE    PRODIGAL'S    RETURN 

— it  was  black  before  he  went  away.  His  eyes,  I 
know,  are  dark — almost  black.  He  is  pale — like  a 
Spaniard !"  .  .  . 

Joyce,  looking  across  the  bed  with  slow  horror 
dawning  in  her  face,  looked  into  a  pair  of  blue  eyes 
beneath  tawny  hair,  cut  short  as  a  soldier's  hair  should 
be.  She  looked  upon  a  man  big,  broad,  fair — English 
from  crown  to  toe — and  the  quiet  command  of  his  lips 
and  eyes  made  her  say — 

"Yes,  mother,  yes." 

For  some  moments  there  was  silence.  Joyce  stood 
pale  and  breathless,  wondering  what  this  might  mean. 
Then  the  dying  woman  spoke  again. 

"Kiss  me,"  she  said.  "I  .  .  .  am  going.  Stephen 
first — my  firstborn !  And  now,  Joyce  .  .  .  and  now 
kiss  each  other — across  the  bed!  I  want  to  hear  it 
...  I  want  ...  to  tell  .  .  .    your  .  .  .  father." 

With  a  last  effort  she  raised  her  hands,  seeking 
their  heads.  At  first  Joyce  hesitated,  then  she  leant 
forward,  and  the  old  woman's  chilled  fingers  pressed 
their  lips  together.     That  was  the  end. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  Joyce  and  this  man  stood 
facing  each  other  in  the  little  dining-room.  He  began 
his  explanation  at  once. 

"Stephen,"  he  said,  "was  shot — out  there — as  a 
traitor.  I  could  not  tell  her  that !  I  did  not  mean  to 
do  this,  but  what  else  could  I  do  ?" 

He  paused,  moved  towards  the  door  with  that  same 

342 


THE    PRODIGAL'S    RETURN 

strange  hesitation  which  she  had  noticed  on  his  ar- 
rival.   At  the  door  he  turned,  to  justify  himself, 

"I  still  think,"  he  said  gravely,  "that  it  was  the 
best  thing  to  do." 

Joyce  made  no  answer.  The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 
There  was  something  very  pathetic  in  the  distress  of 
this  strong  man,  facing,  as  it  were,  an  emergency  of 
which  he  felt  the  delicacy  to  be  beyond  his  cleverness 
to  handle. 

"Last  night,"  he  went  on,  "I  made  all  the  necessary 
arrangements  for  your  future — just  as  Stephen  would 
have  made  them — as  a  brother  might  have  done.  I 
...  he  and  I  were  brother  officers  in  a  very  wild 
army.  Your  brother — was  not  a  good  man.  None 
of  us  were."  His  hand  was  on  the  door.  "He  asked 
me  to  come  and  tell  you,"  he  added.    "I  shall  go  back 


now.  .  .  ." 


They  stood  thus:  he  watching  her  face  with  his 
honest  soft  blue  eyes,  she  failing  to  meet  his  glance. 

"May  I  come  back  again  ?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

She  gave  a  little  gasp,  but  made  no  answer. 

"I  will  come  back  in  six  months,"  he  announced 
quietly,  and  then  closed  the  door  behind  him. 


THE    END 


343 


fSf- 


■,i;i;i::;);^;;i::j;j^j:>;»;^  -  Jr'-'* 


[3illtH»!-*0<M>O'»4»t'<  >  ■• 


